


wear it now like a mantle (always there to remind you)

by ryttu3k



Series: and every skyline was like a kiss on the lips [1]
Category: Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Aftercare, Angst with a Happy Ending, Consensual Non-Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Epistolary, Feelings Realization, Gender Dysphoria, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Loss of Identity, Memories, Mind Manipulation, Nonbinary Character, Other, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Recovery, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28787763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryttu3k/pseuds/ryttu3k
Summary: In the aftermath of a near-lethal altercation with the remnants of the Trinity of Constantinople, Sascha struggles with centuries-old trauma and Beckett struggles with his growing feelings for an enemy he doesn't hate nearly as much as he thought he did.
Relationships: Beckett (Vampire: The Masquerade)/Sascha Vykos
Series: and every skyline was like a kiss on the lips [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2188527
Comments: 57
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Follows on immediately from the chapter Dreams & Nightmares from Beckett's Jyhad Diary, heavily involves the events of the Dark Ages Tzimisce novel. References to the BJD chapters Azhi Dahaka and The Madness of Jerusalem.
> 
> Title and lyrics from Florence + The Machine - Third Eye, which is less about Salubri than you would think. Go listen to it it slaps.
> 
> Chapter warnings: discussion of past rape, nonconsensual body and mind modification, memory tampering, and trauma, suicidal ideation.

_Hey, look up  
Don't make a shadow of yourself  
Always shutting out the light  
Caught in your own creation  
Look up, look up  
It tore you open  
And oh, how much?_

_'Cause there's a hole where your heart lies  
And I can see it with my third eye  
And though my touch, it magnifies  
You pull away, you don't know why_  


-

He finds Vykos on the eastern side balcony of Prospero's villa, propped up against the wall, gazing out at the darkened forest. There's the kind of stirring of wildlife that suggests the sunrise is imminent; if Beckett glances at the sky he can already see the telltale brightening from the approach of dawn.

"Planning on working on your tan?" Beckett says, leaning against the balcony rail with his back to the impending rising of the sun. The storms have cleared away and the skies are brilliantly clear, star-studded where they are dark enough; slowly, those stars are fading.

Vykos glances up at him once, then away again.

Something uncomfortable catches in Beckett's chest. Vykos has always, no matter their form, been disconcertingly intense in their countenance and gaze. But the look in their dark eyes, now, is almost blank; they're turned inwards, reflective and defensive.

He should probably go. He should probably not push his luck around Vykos, someone he knows can and will hurt him - if nothing else, it seems like they want to be alone. He should probably, definitely go.

"Is this about Constantinople?" he says instead.

Vykos' laugh sounds exhausted. "What _isn't_ about Constantinople?" they say, and their eyes close, head falling back against the wall. "It all started there. No doubt it will end there, too."

Beckett watches them closely. The base details of Vykos' life in Constantinople isn't a closely guarded secret; they had lived there along with their sire Symeon in the times before its fall, in Constantinople at its height. They had been the kind of scholar people spoke about in slightly fearful tones for what they may have done with their knowledge, far too intelligent, far too knowing.

It had fallen and Vykos had fled to the Carpathians for a time. They had returned some thirty years later, and they had got to work.

"Michael?" Beckett asks, and Vykos, minutely, flinches.

He wouldn't have even caught it if he hadn't been watching. Beckett stares at them, at the smooth face and closed eyes, in fascination and no small amount of concern.

Vykos breathes in and exhales, steadying, calming. "Why did you call him our 'insane ex-boyfriend' earlier?"

Discomforted, Beckett shrugs, because he may not be able to resist poking at live embers but at least recognises when he's overstepped someone's boundaries. "I was only teasing. Making some attempt at an inappropriate joke, I suppose, since I had heard stories about you being... close. You have my apologies."

Opening their eyes, Vykos finally looks at him properly, the intensity Beckett remembers flaring in them. For a long, long moment, they study him, then they close their eyes again and their shoulders slump.

"Imagine," they finally say, "You are a scholar of Constantinople, its fall imminent but yet to occur. The Trinity that had held the city together for so long has dissolved. The Gaul is dead. The Dragon is vanished. The Patriarch is losing his sanity by inches every day. When your sire, who you love and trust beyond all others, summons you and says he has a solution, you follow immediately."

Beckett nods once, slowly. Constantinople before its collapse - they had discussed it only that evening, he and Ameirin.

"The servant you are given to feed off is drugged," Vykos continues, their voice slow, dreamy. Like it's recollection of something blurry at the edges. Their eyes are still closed. "You fall. Someone catches you and bears you away, undresses you and lays you down on a slab of frigid marble. You can't move, not even to open your eyes."

A shudder down their spine. Beckett watches, intrigued and appalled.

"They reshape you. It's agony, of course. How could it not be, having every part of your body stripped away and made anew? Every changed tendon, every changed muscle - you feel every change, and you can do nothing. You can't fight it. You can't cry out. You can't make it stop. You still can't open your eyes. All you can do is scream in your mind, and hope your Beast doesn't consume you. And when your violation is complete, it's your sire who speaks and confirms that the deed is done."

"Vykos," Beckett starts, and his heart is aching. Because this _is_ violation, betrayal, pain inflicted by someone who should have never committed the act on their own childe.

Vykos makes a small, pained noise and draws their legs to their chest. Beckett watches them with something approaching dismay. They look so human stripped of all their alterations and changes like this, like someone small and hurting and vulnerable; they glance up once at Beckett and there's pain in their eyes.

"It doesn't stop there, of course," they say bitterly. "Gregorius Dimities was one of the Inconnu, and he destroyed minds. He destroyed what was left of Michael's mind, took his delusions and spun them into his funeral shroud. Imagine, now, he comes to your misshapen, manipulated body and strives to do the same to your self. To destroy _your_ mind. To break down everything that makes you, you. To impart you with one belief only - that you are the Dracon, returned to your lover in his hour of need. And thus you are given to the Patriarch as a gift, and not even you know the magnitude of your violation."

"Vykos," Beckett says again, and the Tzimisce jerks their head up, fixes a glare on him that sends a chill down his spine.

"Let me finish!" they snarl. "For god's sake, _let me finish_!"

Beckett snaps his mouth shut again, cold with alarm at both the singular pronouns and the tears - _tears_ \- he can see in Vykos' eyes.

Another steadying breath. Those grieved eyes closing again. The words trip from their tongue like they're racing to be said, desperate to be heard. "You called Michael our lover. You were not wrong, but it was not with my consent. Gregorius had subsumed my mind with the belief that I was the Dracon, and the one who shared Michael's bed was not _me_. Michael knew it. He knew immediately that I was not his love. He used me anyway, kept me as his plaything in his bed chambers and his prize to become an inheritor of his Dream. When Constantinople fell, Symeon erased the whole sorry affair from my memories. And maybe it would have ended there. Maybe I could have let it be buried. I had found a place back in the Carpathians where I had lived my mortal life. I had my duties. I had Ilias, and I adored him more than anything else in the entire damned world."

_Ilias._ Beckett's eyes widen in memory of the Tzimisce he had met in New York, the one whose gentleness and tenderness had belied the pain and urgency of the situation.

Vykos forces their hands into their hair and curl around the strands, pull hard.

"I remembered. Eventually, I could not stop remembering. Every day I closed my eyes, I would remember Michael in my dreams, and I would awaken sick with terror even as the contents of the dreams faded." They're talking faster now, rushing the words out, tripping over them; Vykos is normally so clear and articulate that the rambling (for there is no other way to describe it thus) has caught Beckett thoroughly off-guard. "You see, they had delivered a body - the torpid body of Nikita of Sredetz, the Archbishop of Nod. Grandchilde of the Dracon, we eventually learned. Except - he was not Nikita, but the true Dracon, the childe of the Eldest himself, and his presence began to unravel me. And when I remembered, truly - remembered the full extent of what Michael had done to me - I awakened to find the Dracon, and to find Ilias, who was no longer Ilias."

Their voice cracks, and Beckett moves without thinking about it, moves to crouch at their side, one hand half-extended like an offering. Because, damn it all, this is Vykos but this is also someone hurting, someone who has faced such horrors and is now breaking down from it.

He doesn't know if it's the unwanted reunion with Michael that's brought all this to the surface. But Vykos is hurting, and Beckett can't stop himself from trying to fix it.

The look Vykos gives him through the veil of their hair is miserable, grateful. They drop their head, speak to their drawn-up knees, dig their nails into their biceps hard enough to draw blood.

"He had been... subsumed. He had become an avatar of the Eldest." Another crack in their voice at that name. Beckett nods wordlessly, remembers the remnants of the dread presence he had felt during his encounter in New York. "The Dracon wished for an ending to his long years of unlife. His sire refused. He consumed him, solidified his essence within Ilias' body. He used Ilias to rape me. Passed the Dracon's essence into me, fused him and I together. Fused _us_. Ilias protected me the best he could from the pain. He did not survive it. The Eldest forced the Dracon's essence upon me, and Ilias died protecting me, and now the Dracon is gone and I can think clearly for the first time in eight hundred years and _I don't remember who I am any more_."

"Vykos," Beckett says, and his voice is trembling in horror and sympathy and fear - fear, because the eastern sky is rosy and he can feel the terror rising in his gut - "Vykos, I'm so sorry but we need to go inside. We need to go inside, okay? We can talk about this as much as you want, but - inside, okay?"

Another misery-filled glance through their hair. Automatically, Beckett reaches up to wipe a bloody tear away before catching himself, digging his claws into his palm to suppress the urge to touch and comfort.

Pressing a hand against the burns on their chest, Vykos shakes their head. "Go inside, then. I don't care. I haven't been a person for eight hundred years."

"Vykos," Beckett says again, "Don't be stupid. Come inside." He stands, holds his hand out without hesitating, without caring for what exactly a Tzimisce can do with their hands.

Vykos stares at the outstretched hand, then back up to meet Beckett's gaze. Beckett can almost see the rising sun reflected in them. "Why?" they say brokenly.

Barely fighting back the fear, Beckett moves, shields them from the rising sun, because it'll hurt like hell but he knows his limits, knows he can handle it. 

"Vykos," he says, then, " _Sascha_. Please."

The sunlight is already prickling on Beckett's shoulders. Vykos makes a hopeless, helpless sound and slips their hand into Beckett's.

They move fast, he and Vykos. Keeping his body between them and the sun, he bundles them inside, down the stairs, into the cool dark depths of Prospero's haven. Vykos is yielding, passive despite the potential power of Beckett's hand in theirs; when Beckett glances into their face he sees hopelessness and a hollow sort of fear and grief.

He thinks he understands, now. Thinks he can understand why Vykos has shut down, turned inwards, clutching fractured pieces of their self in their bloodied hands.

They had broken Vykos. Symeon and Gregorius Dimities, Michael the Patriarch and the Dracon. The Eldest, the Tzimisce antediluvian himself, or itself, whatever it was now.

(Once, alarmed and disturbed at Vykos' inhumanity, he had referred to them as 'it'. Now, he wants to tear those who had conspired to bring about that inhumanity from limb to limb. How much of the fiend he thought he knew, considered to be his rival and his enemy, had actually been the Dracon, and how much had been Sascha Vykos? Did he even know the owner of the cold hand he was clinging to?)

Rapidly approaching footsteps. Without even thinking about it, Beckett pulls Vykos behind him protectively and only relaxes when he finds Raoul, Ameirin's chief of staff.

" _There_ you are," he sighs in relief, gaze flicking to Beckett and Vykos' joined hands and saying nothing, the picture of discretion. "We were getting worried. Come, I have rooms prepared for you."

Beckett follows; Vykos allows themself to be be led. The Tzimisce has fallen passive again, quiet and hollow, like how Beckett had found them on the balcony. He nods once in gratitude to Raoul when he shows them their adjacent rooms, and the good man disappears again; Beckett leads Vykos into one and shuts the door.

"Why did you tell me everything?" he says quietly as he guides Vykos to the bed and finally releases their hand, feeling the fatigue of day but unwilling to succumb to it at such a vulnerable point in time.

Vykos shrugs, the movement listless. "I haven't been able to think for myself for nearly eight hundred years," they say, slumping on to the bed. "I needed to say it out loud, I think. To make it real."

"Why would you _want_ to?"

The glare Vykos shoots them is sharp. "Because it happened. Because I can't erase it. My sire forced me to forget the first time, and by the time I could even remember it..." A wave of their hand, frustration in the gesture. "By the time I remembered, I wasn't given the time to be able to _acknowledge_ it. Not as Myca. Not as Sascha. But the Dracon is gone now, and now I can _acknowledge_ that the Dream -"

The words stumble, falter.

"That the Dream was a Nightmare. That what they did to me was violation and abuse and rape. That I have spent eight centuries as a servant of someone else's will, and now the Dracon is gone and I'm free, and I have _no fucking idea_ who I'm supposed to be."

"I'm sorry," Beckett says softly.

And what else can he say? The Sascha Vykos he thought he knew was an amalgamation, an unliving fusion of souls. He doesn't know the hunched, sad figure on the bed, doesn't know how to comfort them, how to fix things. And for once, his common sense and empathy is keeping a lid clamped down on his curiosity, the questions he would have of the fine details, the rituals and methods used to reshape someone into an unknowing doppelganger of someone else, to fuse a methuselah soul into someone else's being.

Vykos sighs, shakes their head, and lies down, their back to Beckett. "You should sleep," they mumble into the pillow, "I'll still be here in the evening, perhaps."

"Nope," Beckett says immediately, taking off his glasses and setting them on the nightstand, shucking off his boots, and stretching out on the bed beside Vykos. Careful not to touch, present without invading their personal space. "You're liable to go jump out a window into the sun right now. I'm going to stay here and keep an eye on you."

There's a long silence before Vykos makes a sound that's vaguely reminiscent of a laugh. "If you insist," they say, and fall silent.

Beckett watches them for a long, long moment, at the hunched shoulders, the fall of long dark hair. "Sleep well, Vykos," he murmurs, and lets the sleep of day take him.

At first, he's not quite sure what wakes him up.

The sun is setting, and Beckett can still feel the weariness of day in his bones. He's still fully clothed, more or less; at the least, he's managed to change into something clean, has rid himself of the filth of Constantinople. Lying on top of the blankets, he can feel the bedding bunched up under his ribs, and his feet are cold but his chest is warm.

There's rather a lot of hair in his face. Beckett cranks open an eye, and his vision resolves to find he's wrapped around Vykos like they're a teddy bear, their legs tangled together.

Beckett blinks.

His first, immediate thought is that Vykos will likely kill him if they catch him clinging like that; very carefully, he extracts his leg from where they're wrapped around each other. He's in the process of gently, cautiously lifting his arm from where it's draped loosely over Vykos' waist when the Tzimisce stirs, makes a thin little sound of grief and fear, and Beckett freezes.

Vykos curls in on themself, still somewhere between sleep and true wakefulness. If Beckett lifts his head, he can see their furrowed brow, the twist of lips that have been bitten bloody. Dampness on their cheeks. Their lips part; the hoarse whisper of one single name so pained it feels like a dagger.

"Ilias..."

Beckett breathes in, out. Rests his hand carefully, cautiously, on Vykos' upper arm.

Vykos wakes like a startled cat, entire body jerking away, twisting to glare furiously. "Touch me again while I'm sleeping," they say icily, "And I'll turn you into a particularly ugly throw rug."

The effect is somewhat ruined by the fact that they're wide-eyed and trembling like a leaf, cheeks tear-streaked, lips bitten and bloodied. Beckett doesn't move.

"You were having a bad dream," he says lowly.

Vykos' shoulders slump, head dropping, hidden behind the veil of dark hair. "I have had them before," they confess, still shaking. "After Constantinople. Most of the time, I didn't remember the contents, simply waking up in terror - sometimes to the point of near-frenzy. Towards the end, I started remembering. They were, inevitably, of Michael. The memories that my sire had taken from me." They rake a shaking hand through their hair, leaving it in spectacular disarray. "They stopped, more or less, after the Dracon. Now it seems I am condemned to have them again, and this time with entirely new subjects."

"Ilias," Beckett says.

"Ilias," Vykos confirms, and it sounds like a sigh.

Beckett hesitates, then shakes his head, sitting up and reaching for his glasses. "I should get us something to drink," he mumbles, shoving his boots on without bothering to untie the laces. "Do you want to stay here, or...?"

Vykos answers by lying back down with a defeated sigh, eyes closing again. One hand lifts to wipe the tear streaks away. "I have nowhere else I want to be," they admit, shoulders hunched. "Our demented host will not let us stray far, I suppose."

"If the spooky Baali methuselah is after us, it's probably safest." Beckett shoves his hands in his pockets, rocks back on his heels. "Uh - okay, then. Stay put. I'll be back soon."

He hurries out without looking back, and begins to look for Ameirin.

He finds him in one of the upstairs living rooms, the early evening sky spread out before them. Ameirin has a book in his lap, flipping through it with half-hearted interest; he glances up when Beckett steps inside.

"Ah, Beckett," he says, closing it and setting it on the table beside him. "You will be delighted to hear we have had no more little security breaches. Still, I've already undertaken the first part of a cleansing ritual on your man Cesare - now that you're up and about, we should start on you too."

"Later," Beckett says with an impatient wave of his hands. "Did you know about Vykos' past?"

Ameirin gives him a cool, careful look. "Vykos has a long and rather sordid past. What aspect of it, in particular?"

"What their sire did to them," he says, and it comes out as a growl. "What _Michael_ did to them. What the damned _Antediluvian_ did to them. Did you know about the Dracon?"

At the last, Ameirin nods. "The presence of the Dracon, yes. You would know that that presence is no longer within them, then - I suspect the burn marks correspond to an..." He pauses thoughtfully, considering the words. "An extraction, of sorts. Did they speak of this?"

Beckett makes an affirmative sound. "Yes. They're not taking it well. A lot of sins of the past being dredged up." He hesitates, then adds, more quietly, "A lot of pain. A lot of trauma. I had to physically drag them inside this morning."

"So Raoul mentioned." Ameirin sighs, shakes his head, a wry smile on the edge of his lips. "You know, just last night you were asking if we should put them out of their misery."

Beckett makes a discomforted sound, turning to pace the room. "I know. But there's something _different_ about them now. Like the presence of the Dracon had turned them into something else entirely, and now its absence has left someone else in its wake. I don't know what to do to help them, honestly. They seem so... broken."

Ameirin gives him another of those long, cool, calculating looks. "Beckett," he finally says, "I have had several run-ins with Myca Vykos over the centuries, both before and after the Dracon's presence... came to be. Even before, they were hardly an angel. They had always been manipulative and calculating, ambitious and callous. They were not exactly a sterling paragon of humanity." He sighs, shakes his head. "They may indeed be broken. That does not mean they are a passive, blameless innocent, nor is there a firm division between the Before, the During, and the After."

"I know," Beckett says hopelessly. "But I've never seen them like that, Ameirin. They said they didn't know who they were any more."

"Eight hundred years is a long time, even for our kind. Perhaps they will revert to their character prior to the joining -" (And here, Beckett winces, because he remembers exactly what Vykos had said that 'joining' had involved) "- and perhaps they will remain as they have been for so long. Perhaps, we will find a new Sascha Vykos, one who has shaken off both of their former selves. All I will do now is encourage you to be careful with whatever we find emerging."

"I know," Beckett repeats, and his voice is glum. "I just have a rather strong dislike of seeing people hurting. Call it a character flaw."

Ameirin smiles faintly. "I'm surprised you didn't ask them any ritualistic details of these... events."

"Oh, yes, that would have gone down well," Beckett says with a grimace. "Give me _some_ credit. Of course I was curious, but even I realise when something is hideously traumatic."

("Say, Vykos! When the millennia-old founder of your clan was raping you with your soon-to-be-deceased lover's body to force the essence of its suicidal childe into you, did you happen to notice what rituals it was using?")

Ameirin raises his eyebrows, then shakes his head with a chuckle, gesturing to someone at the back of the room. One of his servants approaches, two packets of body-warm blood in their hands, offering them to Beckett.

"Go to Vykos, then," Ameirin says as Beckett gulps the contents of his blood bag down, sighing in sincere appreciation. "If they are as traumatised as you have implied, I have a ritual that may be able to help calm them, and we should get started on those cleansing rituals."

Beckett nods, and even he can't deny that he's worried, itching to get back to Vykos, to ensure they're still safe and unharmed.

("Well? Are they going to recover or should we put them out of their misery?")

"Right. I'll bring them back."

"Good, good," Ameirin nods. "Now, shoo."

Beckett shoos.


	2. Chapter 2

Vykos isn't in bed when Beckett returns to the room. His brow furrows, glad at least that the sun has since set; still, there are a myriad of ways to harm oneself if they were truly determined.

"Vykos?" he calls out cautiously, trying to convince himself that he's not afraid for someone that, until a day ago, he was more afraid _of_.

"In here," comes the quiet reply, and Beckett turns his attention to a walk-in wardrobe, the light on, door open.

"I didn't know you were still in the closet," he jokes weakly as he hurries over, finding Vykos settled cross-legged in front of a full-length mirror, shrouded in a blanket. Vykos' only response to that is to raise a skeptical eyebrow, sighing in mock disgust at Beckett's attempt at jest.

A bare arm extends from the blanket lump. "Give it here, then," they say, and Beckett hands the blood bag over.

There's a short, uneasy silence as Vykos drains the bag and drops it beside them. Beckett leans back against the door frame. "So," he starts delicately, "What are you doing?"

Vykos hums a thoughtful note. "Are you familiar with the Path of Metamorphosis?"

"'Humanity is boring, I'm going to turn myself into a meat crime'?"

Making a sharp little noise that Beckett realises with a touch of pride and a fair bit more of alarm is a mostly-suppressed _laugh_ , Vykos shakes their head bemusedly. "More or less. It's the rejection of everything human that remains, the potential to transcend the constraints of mere flesh. The Metamorphosists believe that once there is nothing human remaining of the flesh, then we can escape our fates, and the transformation of the soul can finally begin. Only then can one reach a state of apotheosis - the Azhi Dahaka."

Beckett studies them carefully. "You were a Metamorphosist. That's why they wanted you."

" _I_ was not. I was a student of Via Voluptarius, the Path of Pleasure. I believe it's defunct now."

"Then -" Beckett frowns. "It was the Dracon, then? The Metamorphosist."

Vykos nods once, and wraps the blanket more tightly around their shoulders. "I had never enjoyed my body," they say quietly. "For a long time, especially after our... joining, we wondered if metamorphosis was the solution. You saw the results. Our inhumanity. Our constant state of flux. The use of flesh like clay. The systemic stripping away of everything that made me who I was, to complete what my sire and Gregorius had started."

Slowly, Beckett nods. "I assumed it was just a Tzimisce thing."

"It is. The Path of Metamorphosis is inherently tied to vicissitude - or protean as a whole," they add, with a sharp glance in Beckett's direction. "But that does not mean it's the only path one can take. There are many of us who simply do not consider a discipline to be a replacement for someone's personality."

Beckett grins at that. "All the changes were due to the Dracon, then? Because I doubt I ever saw you look the same twice. Most of the time, I could tell it was you because of the way you were glaring at me."

Vykos raises an eyebrow. "You did have a habit of sticking your nose into the wrong place at the wrong time," they point out wryly. "And that is the problem I'm struggling with at the present, unfortunately. How much of the past eight hundred years was me, how much was him? How much was us? The Dracon is an agent of metamorphosis, and no doubt our... changes were largely influenced by him. But did my own discomfort and dysphoria drive it? Did I truly see changes to my own self as a natural extension of my study of vicissitude, or did his influence override my own desires? I don't and can't know that, and I _hate_ not knowing things."

They're scowling again, glaring at the reflection in the mirror like it's done them wrong. Beckett watches carefully, uncertainly. This is something he has no experience in - not the disconnect and dislike of his body, not the violation of body and mind that Vykos has survived in the past. The closest comparison he can make, his claws and eyes, marks of the Beast, are parts of him he has long since accepted. Anything he says, he realises with a pang, is going to sound trite and false.

Just about all he can relate to is...

"The unknown and the unknowable," he finally says. "And finding out which is which. You can find answers for unknowns. All you can do is accept the unknowable, and try to work out some kind of peace towards it. If you can't change it, then the next question is, where do you go from there?"

 _And haven't you tried to find answers for the unknowable? Is Gehenna upon us? What can we do, if it is?_ that insidious question whispers in his mind. He closes his eyes, shakes his head to clear the thought away.

"Where do I go from here?" Vykos echoes, and bows their head. "I still don't know."

"Well, in the short term, Am-- Prospero wants us both," he volunteers, straightening up. "Something about cleansing rituals. And, er..." Hesitating, here, because he's not quite sure if he's made a mistake in asking about Vykos without their say-so, even with the best of intentions. "I didn't give him the details, but I mentioned you were... upset. He said he had another ritual to help, ah, calm you down."

Vykos turns and glares at him, the frosty expression on their face refreshingly familiar. "I do not need _calming_ ," they snap, and flings a hand in his direction. "Go. I will join you shortly. Right now, I do not want to see your face or I will be liable to remove it."

"That's the Vykos I know and love," Beckett says, and goes.

-

**[RECORDING BEGINS]**

**Beckett:** I'm here, Vykos is... on their way. So what does this ritual cleansing involve?

 **Prospero:** No bubble baths, alas. This is a fairly simple procedure, but cumulative - the more it's performed, the more effective it'll be at hiding you. And I can do another for Vitel's summons, and Vykos'... issues.

 **Vykos:** [icily] 'Issues'?

 **Beckett:** Ah. Your timing is, as always, spectacular.

 **Prospero:** Good, you're here. Well, who's first for cleansing?

 **Beckett:** I'll go, I suppose.

 **Vykos:** Beckett, tell me you haven't been recording our conversations all this time.

 **Beckett:** Okay, I haven't been recording our conversations all this time.

**[PAUSE]**

**Beckett:** I'm serious! The last one I recorded was the discussion between the three of us. [softly] I promise. Scout's honour.

 **Prospero:** What is a scout, exactly?

 **Beckett:** Never mind. I wanted to record the details of this ritual, at least, so I'll offer myself up first. For the record, what does it involve?

 **Prospero:** Ah, yes. Each procedure involves three strips of vellum. Using wet ink, I write on it - the words of which I will not share publicly, so best not to bother asking - and wrap them around your throat and wrists, so the ink transfers to your skin. Before it dries, I say some words over it. It will feel quite hot for a moment, you may feel a little discomfort.

 **Beckett:** Of course, I'm hardly used to discomfort. Just silk sheets and blood out of crystal goblets for me. Where would you like me?

 **Prospero:** Here is fine. Vykos, if you will pass me my lap board...? Thank you.

**[THE SOUND OF A PEN SCRATCHING ON VELLUM FOR A MINUTE, THEN PROSPERO'S LOW CHANTING. BECKETT MAKES A PAINED NOISE.]**

-

_For the record, it felt a little like wearing very hot jewellery. Tolerable, but uncomfortable. When Prospero unwrapped my wrists, I could see the inked words glowing white against my skin before fading into nothing. - B_

-

**Prospero:** There! That wasn't so bad, was it?

 **Beckett:** Do you want an honest answer?

 **Prospero:** Now you, Vykos. Please, have a seat.

 **Vykos:** Fine.

**[THE SAME SOUNDS OF WRITING, THE SAME CHANTING. VYKOS STAYS SILENT THROUGHOUT.]**

**Vykos:** Is it done?

 **Prospero:** Well, yes, but -

 **Vykos:** Then we are going.

**[RETREATING FOOTSTEPS, AND A DOOR CLOSING WITH A BIT TOO MUCH FORCE.]**

**Beckett:** ...Ah.

**[RECORDING ENDS]**

-

Beckett returns to the guest rooms with a profound sense of unease. 

Vykos hadn't said much, but what they had said had been... telling. They had been short-tempered and acerbic, refusing to meet either Beckett or Ameirin's eyes; when they had left, it had been with slammed doors.

He's pretty sure he's made a mistake, confiding in Ameirin.

Vykos' door is shut tight. For a moment, Beckett wavers on the threshold, weighs up the pros and cons of walking in or walking away. Finally, he settles on a middle ground, knocks thrice.

"Vykos?" There is no answer, and Beckett rocks back on his heels. "I expect you're displeased with me. Which is fair, quite frankly. Still, I'll leave you alone. I'll just be in my room if you need anything. Door is open."

He really dislikes talking to wood. Shaking his head, Beckett retreats to the guest room he's been assigned, finding his luggage there, the bed untouched from the day before. There's a good-sized desk, at least; he can distract himself with more attempted translations, more notes, more working out how to stop maniacal methuselah with overly personal connections to people he's starting to feel -

Beckett stops that train of thought sharply, and takes a seat at the desk with a thump.

It's distracting work, at least. He glances once up at the clock and finds three hours have slipped by, the desk covered in papers, open books, and a few esoteric scrolls he's borrowed from Ameirin's library. Where had they all come from? He knows he's ducked out once or twice to pick up more reading material, but he's sure the damn things have starting reproducing.

"Time flies when you're having fun," he mutters, then smiles and adds, "Fruit flies like a banana."

"What?" comes a confused reply from the bed, and Beckett nearly falls out of the chair.

Vykos sits cross-legged on the bed, a book in hand, giving him a look of sincere bemusement. All Beckett can do is shrug helplessly and explain, awkwardly, "Well, there's the phrase 'time flies when you're having fun', and that made me think of the phrase 'time flies like an arrow', since, you know, it's generally linear - generally - and _that_ leads on to the phrase 'fruit flies like a banana', which is both a play on the earlier phrase and a frankly amusing mental image and also a literal pun relating to fruit flies, because, you know, they are fond of bananas..."

"I regret ever learning English," says Vykos.

Rarely bothering to be self-conscious, Beckett just shrugs. "How long have you been sitting there?"

A shrug in return. "Twenty minutes? You can return to your work," Vykos says, then hesitates briefly before adding, "I felt... a companionable silence was better than brooding alone."

"Well," Beckett says, "I can do that." If Vykos doesn't feel like conversation, he can indulge that; he has plenty of reading still to do, and he's feeling a rare sense that this might not be the best time to poke at mostly open wounds.

He lasts seven minutes.

"What are you reading?"

With a grimace, Vykos holds up their book - a tome on Daimonion, from the symbol on the front. "Mary is going to be a formidable foe," they say, and add, darkly, "I found many such books in the shelves Prospero directed me to. What do you know of our host?"

Beckett shrugs, giving up the pretence of paying attention to his work and moving to the bed, propping himself up beside Vykos against the head board. "He's saved both our lives. He's given us both shelter and information. I know, I know - the rumours that he's one of the Baali himself. He's never given me cause for alarm."

Vykos scowls. "Baali, or something else. You realise that if he is Inconnu, he could be responsible for the fall of Constantinople, yes?"

"Yeah." Beckett studies them thoughtfully. "Is that a bad thing?"

A glare, but mixed with perplexity. "Is it a bad thing that the height of Cainite civilisation outside of Enoch fell? Is it a _bad thing_?"

"And if it hadn't?" Beckett considers refraining from speaking for a single, lingering second, then pushes ahead with it. "It was already collapsing well before the Inconnu arrived on the scene. Antonius was dead, the Dracon was gone, and Michael was, to put it bluntly, batshit insane. Or would you have preferred to remain his brainwashed plaything for a few more centuries?"

He hates saying it. Hates seeing the pain flash across Vykos' face before it's quickly suppressed. But Constantinople burned, and the Dream with it, and if they're to face this newly awakened Trinity - or even just one part of it - then Vykos needs to know that. Needs to acknowledge what happened to them, so they can fight through it.

Vykos remains silent for a long, long moment, head turned away, the elegant lines of their profile shrouded in dark hair.

"If you had not shown up when you did," they finally say, staring at the far wall like they can see through it, "Then we may have rejoined him. The compulsion was... deep. The urge for completion. Not just from the Dracon. From myself, as well." It's a quick, compulsive gesture, raising a hand to wipe at their eyes. "What he did to me when I was not myself, it was a violation. I know it was. I had never been given a chance to make the decision for myself. But before that, I had adored him. I had adored him."

Beckett doesn't move. Had he still been mortal, he would have held his breath.

"And if I had gone with him," Vykos continues, eyes closing, brow furrowed in some kind of grief, "I know, I _know_ the urge of the Dracon to reunite with his love would have been too strong. I would have been consumed completely. Perhaps some residue of me would have remained, but I would have not been strong enough to fight against the will of someone like him. So - thank you. For saving my life, and for giving me this second chance."

He... hadn't expected it. Had wanted Vykos to come to their own conclusion, wouldn't have minded an apology, but he hadn't expected it.

"You're welcome," he says quietly.

If the apology had been unexpected, what Vykos does next is downright shocking. With a miserable sigh, they turn to Beckett, resting their head on his shoulder, eyes closed. This close, Beckett can feel tremors running through their body; with all the hesitance of someone who's just found themself locked in a cage with a werewolf, he slowly, carefully wraps an arm around those narrow shoulders.

He's cuddling _Sascha Vykos_. Beckett definitely can't put this in his diary, he's not sure even _he'd_ believe it.

Vykos slumps against Beckett's side and begins to weep. Broken, wretched sobbing that sends shudders through their whole body, eight hundred years of buried pain finally emerging, finally able to be expressed. Eight hundred years of the stain of the Dracon gone in an instant, leaving someone shattered behind.

Beckett thinks his heart might be breaking. He's known Vykos for long enough for his image of them to fix at that of the Sabbat fiend, the callous monster who never looks the same twice, who sees the body (theirs and others') as clay to mould how they wish.

And now he's moving to hold them properly, to give what support and care and attention and affection he can, having to recontextualise the entire shape of their shared past with the knowledge he's gained. Fear _of_ versus fear _for_ , suspicion versus sympathy and support; Vykos under the malignant corruption of a bitter and self-destructive methuselah, versus Vykos left alone with their past, broken, traumatised, but free.

Unthinkingly, Beckett presses a kiss into their soft dark hair. Rubs one hand (being mindful of his claws) up and down their back. Does what he would to comfort someone in distress, and never mind his knowledge of Vykos' past actions, because no one, Vykos included, can even begin to say whether they'll be remotely the same person without the Dracon's influence.

Right here, right now, they're hurting. So right here, right now, Beckett will try and soothe that pain.

It takes a while for Vykos to fall calm again; when they lift their head from Beckett's shoulder, they look wrung out. When they speak, their voice is scratchy and hoarse. "Speak of this to anyone," they say, "And I'll..." They hesitate, then shake their head, heart clearly not in it. "Never mind. Just - don't speak of this to anyone."

Beckett nods solemnly. "You have my word." Unthinkingly, he reaches out to tuck a wayward lock of dark hair behind Vykos' ear. "Are you feeling better?"

Vykos scowls, looking askance at him. "I feel drained. I don't think I've done that since -" A frown crosses their face. "I _haven't_ done that. I couldn't. I didn't remember what Michael and my sire had done until it was too late, and after... I couldn't even grieve Ilias properly."

"Then I'd say you were long overdue for a good cry," Beckett says, and then he frowns, because he's remembering New York again. "What was Ilias like?"

The sigh Vykos lets out is like a prayer, eyes closing, resting their head on Beckett's shoulder again. "Golden," they say softly, reverently. "He was a golden person. He loved everyone - genuinely, not as artifice or manipulative, truly loving being around others, helping them, valuing them. And life - he was a priest of Jarilo, and his domain was the spring. We're dead, but he was so alive."

 _Well, fuck,_ Beckett thinks.

Because Vykos is still brittle like glass, but he can't keep the secret, he _can't_. Because he would be lying by omission. Because if Ilias really is still alive, then he could be a key, a part of helping Vykos recover.

"What did he look like?" he asks, voice low and cautious.

Vykos gives him a sharp, uncertain glance. "He was beautiful," they finally say, and there's enough love in their voice that Beckett has no doubt they mean both inside and out. "Beautiful. Brown eyes, bright, almost auburn. Long, golden-red curls. High cheekbones in a perfect face. He was like a work of art."

Beckett swallows. "I think I met him."

He slides off the bed before he can see the way Vykos' expression changes, immediately hunts for his diary and flipping to his recent pages on New York. There, between a printed chat transcript and Beckett's notes on Calebros, is the flyer for the gallery exhibition; this, he hands to Vykos while he digs through the pages.

"Elias Athanasios," Vykos whispers, and closes their eyes. "'Ilias, immortal'. What happened? How could he still be alive? I saw him die, Beckett, I felt it!"

Guiltily, Beckett glances up again. There's naked anguish on Vykos' face, now; they're holding the flyer like it's a sacrament, hands shaking so much it nearly flutters from their grip.

"I was asked by Calebros to investigate, well, _something_ underneath New York City, and the trail led me to Lambach Ruthven," Beckett finally explains, sees the immediate recognition in Vykos' eyes. "I met with him in my last visit here, and he told me that deep beneath New York was..." A long, long hesitation here. "The Eldest. A frankly horrifying fleshcrafted mass of the Eldest."

Vykos closes their eyes, the flyer finally drifting from their hands. Beckett, by now, has a handful of other print-outs and diary entries; he lays these between them.

Once, Beckett had denied the existence of the Antediluvians. How can he do that now, seeing what he's seen? How can he do that, seeing what this Antediluvian has done to the one sitting beside him?

"I investigated. It was... deeply unpleasant. Something - not sure what - attacked me. And, well..." Head bowed, he slides across the last recording transcripts, his notes (now transferred to paper rather than skin). Lets Vykos lift them with shaking hands.

Silently, they read; when they lift their head again, their expression is that of someone who has had their heart ripped out. "Do you still have the recording?" they ask, voice not even remotely steady.

Beckett nods, sliding off the bed again to search for his tapes, sliding something else into his pocket as he does. It takes a moment to find the recordings from New York, a moment longer to find the point he's looking for; when he does, he hits the Play button.

His own voice. "- farther, much farther, than I can consciously recall," he's saying. "I feel as if I'm lying in something buoyantly bedlike -" A sloshing noise. "I am. A bloody waterbed, point in fact."

And his rescuer's voice - soft, young, light with amusement. "It came with the loft. You should eat something, Mister Beckett."

Wordlessly, Vykos reaches for the recorder. Plays it back, listens, listens again. Another tear traces down their cheek.

"It's him," they say like a prayer. "It's Ilias."

They're reading the notes he had made there. Beckett can't see the exact paragraph in question, but he has a suspicion he knows which one it is, that Vykos' eyes are fixed on the words he had scrawled, bewildered and fascinated, as his host had put him back together.

_"Such curiosity. I knew someone much like you, once - always seeking to know, to learn, to understand both himself and the world, even if the knowledge caused him pain. You know him, or what he has become, I think."_

"Why did he never come back?" Vykos says, and their voice is tired, sad, like all the fight has gone out of them. "If he survived, if he knew _I_ was alive, if he knew that - why did he never come back?"

Wordlessly, Beckett hands across the ivory box and note that Ilias had left on his bedside as he had recuperated; Vykos stills as they scan the note and open the box. 

"Ilias, you sentimental fool," they whisper, tipping the ring out into the palm of their hand, smoothing the band with their thumb. Glancing back up at Beckett, they manage a weak smile. "He tended to - tends to, I suppose - use his own bone for objects like this. The femur, mostly. It would be painful, of course, but it made spellwork last longer and made personal items more meaningful. The box is nothing special, it's just inert bone from some long-dead kine, but the ring - that's from him."

Beckett, whose idea of romantic gestures tended to not involve giving his loved ones severed body parts, gives Vykos a bewildered look. "Uh - I see."

Vykos closes their eyes raises the ring to their lips, presses a kiss against the carved bone and inlaid wirework. "Do you have a spare chain or cord?" they ask, voice almost - almost - steady.

Feeling rather out of his depth, Beckett nods, returning to his bags for the third time in ten minutes. "You don't want to wear it?"

"Not until I see him again." Vykos bows their head, dark hair falling in a curtain around their face, around the hand still holding the ring. "I want to... ask him. I want to learn how he survived when I felt him die. I want to understand why he never came to find me."

Grief and love, love and grief. Beckett hands over the leather cord he had been using to bind some scrolls once upon a time, and wonders if Ilias is the next in a long line of people to cause Vykos pain.

Threading the necklace on to the cord, Vykos ties it off, still holding it loosely in their hand. "I haven't seen him for nearly eight centuries. Is he even the same man?" they say, brow furrowing, lips parted in a silent question. "He died then - the only way he could survive still is if the Eldest intentionally preserved something of him, recreated him. And if that's the case, he could be... compromised, like I was with the Dracon." Their lips twist bitterly. "No doubt the Eldest would find it suiting. I wonder what we would have done, had we encountered him earlier."

The silence, now, is heavy. Beckett, for once, is lost for words. He has no idea how to proceed with this, with this quiet, tired, resigned Vykos, gazing at the ring in the palm of their hand like they can see through time. At least when they had been breaking down, he knew what to do - to hold and soothe and comfort.

This, he's at a loss for.

"I think I might be quite mad," Vykos says thoughtfully, their voice loud in the silence. "To be honest, I'm not quite sure how it's possible to experience what I have without losing much of your sanity. Certainly, it would explain..." They wave a hand. "Well, most of my actions over the years."

Beckett thinks, quite involuntarily, of Anatole. Winces, because thinking of Anatole is painful, the betrayal still too raw.

Vykos does not catch his brief distraction, thankfully. "And if I am afflicted thus, then what state of mind must Ilias be in? What state is the Dracon in, what of Michael and Mary? You may be one of the few sane members left in this coming conflict, and..." Grimacing pointedly, they glance back at Beckett. "That's a worrying thought."

"We're all mad here," Beckett says, and smiles wryly. "Sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."

"Those aren't even from the same book, let alone scene," Vykos says grumpily, and shakes their head. "Well, mad or not, the sun will rise soon. We should sleep."

There's a peculiar look on their face - something between uncertainty and fierce scowling determination. Hesitating only for a moment, Beckett asks, "Do you want to stay here today?"

"Yes," Vykos says, almost before Beckett finishes the question.

Hiding his smile, Beckett returns to his belongings - again, maybe he should just drag them closer to the bed anyway - and digs through it until he finds one of his longer, roomier shirts. Vykos is a good handful of inches taller than him, although they are more slender; he offers the shirt sheepishly. "I'd include trousers," he remarks, voice light, "But I suspect they'd both be too short and would immediately fall off."

An interesting expression crosses Vykos' face. Wordlessly, they grab the shirt off him and head to the walk-in robe to change, Beckett raises his eyebrows and goes to change into his bed clothes himself, switching the main light off, leaving the room bathed in warm lamplight.

His first thought when Vykos emerges, folded clothes in hand (they've borrowed them from one of Prospero's staff members, their own no longer fit to be worn after their frenetic escape from Constantinople), is that the too-loose shirt Beckett has lent them is showing some very distracting collarbones. His second thought, when Vykos turns around to set the clothes and then the ring on its cord on a dresser, is that the shirt isn't quite long enough to hide enticingly long legs and a very nice backside.

His third, slightly sheepish thought is that he probably should avoid those first and second thoughts given that they're about to share a bed, and actively lusting over your platonic(-ish?) bed mate is probably poor form.

"Alright?" he says with a smile carefully schooled into neutrality, setting his glasses on the nightstand.

Vykos smiles back cautiously. "Alright," they answer, sliding those long legs under the bedding, settling beneath the blankets. They hesitate for a long moment, then offer, just as carefully, a quiet, "Thank you."

"Sleep well," Beckett murmurs, and switches off the lamp.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Unhealthy coping mechanisms, drug use, discussion of rape, discussion of consensual non-consent.

Beckett's sleep that day is restless.

It's stress, he suspects, gazing blankly at the ceiling at some time around midday. Over the scheming of their elders, over the signs and portents that still seem, despite his skepticism, to lead towards Gehenna. Over the Tzimisce he's sharing his bed with, their forehead creased in fear and grief even in their sleep.

He's already woken twice due to Vykos' tossing and turning. He suspects he'll be woken at least once more before the sun sets.

The clock on the wall that Beckett can only just make out through the gloom reads that it's half past three when Vykos wakens with a gasp and a flinch. Beckett, only half in a restless doze, starts awake as well, too groggy to really speak or move; he only just manages to reach out and catch Vykos' shoulder lightly, ever mindful of his claws.

"Come here," he mumbles, mostly to the pillow; Vykos hesitates before lying back down like the mattress is a bed of nails and Beckett's arms are venomous snakes.

But they _do_ start to relax, little by little, the stress in their limbs melting away. Beckett, too, can feel his own exhaustion return, the weight of the day pressing down on him, soothing him into sleep.

"Mulțumesc," he thinks he hears as he drops back into slumber, the vaguest note to translate it slipping away beneath the fog of sleep.

The next time he wakes, it's with the full alertness of night. He and Vykos are tangled together comfortably, and while he's pretty sure they're both awake now, neither seem particularly inclined to move.

"I can see your eyes in the dark," Vykos says, voice curious, fascinated, like they're making a scientific observation. "A gleaming red. Like the glow of firelight seen through your hand."

Beckett blinks and raises a hand to his cheek, just to make sure his ability to blush hasn't returned. "Thank you. I think?"

A soft chuckle. "Just accept the compliment. You can see in the dark? You can see me?"

"More or less," he confirms with a shrug. "Just shapes. No great amount of detail. I can see your outline, mostly."

Vykos makes an affirming sound, falls silent for a spell. "Then," they ask cautiously, "Can you see this?" and their dark shape moves and grows and then there are lips pressed against Beckett's and his first thought is how soft and cold they are.

It's over before he can register it properly, really. Beckett blinks, peers at Vykos in the dark. "Uh," he says, his higher functions more or less replaced by the sound a question mark would make if punctuation came with sounds.

If Vykos is any kind of emotional, they don't show it in their voice. "I will not do that again without permission," they say, matter-of-fact, "If you will forgive me the indulgence. I couldn't help but notice the intriguing colours within your aura this morning, though."

Oh. There's the emotion in their voice - amusement, uncertainty, a hint of curiosity, like they would not mind the experiment to go further.

And - _oh_. Beckett recalls his thoughts from before they had lain down together and ducks his head.

"What colours do you see now?" he asks instead, honestly not quite having the words to articulate just how he's feeling, other than the fact that he would not actually be opposed to a bit more kissing.

The feeling of having his soul search _itches_. There's no visible sign, no sudden glow of Vykos' eyes, but Beckett feels naked, like he's being looked at too closely for comfort; he's being read, thoroughly and completely.

"You're uncertain," Vykos finally says, "So the colours are shifting and mottled. The baseline is light blue - that indicates calm. Old silver, that's sadness - it's not dominant, but it's certainly there, in the background. And there are reds - deep red, just coming back into focus, which I saw this morning. If you remember just how you were feeling when you saw me in your shirt, that should explain what _that_ emotion is," they add with an almost audible grin. "And pink, which usually indicates..." Their words catch, for a moment; when Vykos speaks again, their voice is brittle and uncertain. "Compassion. Caring. You care. You care so much, and I'm not sure I understand _why_."

Quite unsure he understands himself, Beckett licks his lips nervously. "That's... a fair reading. You can stop looking now, I think."

(Somewhere in the back of his mind, he can acknowledge it hurts - it _hurts_ that Vykos is so much more taken aback that someone cares about them than that someone feels desire towards them. How rare must it have been over the years, for people to care about them?)

But the reading is accurate enough, and they lapse into a not entirely terrible silence. They are still, more or less, entwined in each other's arms; Beckett gazes at what he can see of Vykos from his very close proximity and tries to unsnarl the tangle of emotions he's feeling.

This is absurd. Completely absurd. Only a few days ago, he would have been... well, not _glad_ , but at least not devastated to be rid of Vykos plaguing him throughout their intersecting travels. They had been a rival - viciously competent, frighteningly intelligent, brutal and ruthless in their desire to understand. He had been wary, had kept them at arm's length, fearing the dreadful power of those monstrous hands.

Hadn't he?

And now they're lying in a lover's embrace together in bed, and Beckett is finding that he is quite disinclined to leave.

"Why did you kiss me?" he finally asks, softly.

For a long moment, Vykos is silent. "Back in Constantinople," they finally say, careful and cautious, "You saved my life. You saved me from making a deadly mistake. _He_ was no longer within me, and my life was no longer important, but you still risked yourself to get me out. To shelter me through my torpor and get me here. You could have left me, and you didn't. Why?"

"I asked first," Beckett grumbles, reluctant to acknowledge how similar the answers to those two questions might be. "Because - I don't know. I just thought that the idea of leaving you to your fate would have been... wrong. That I would have never forgiven myself if I had let something happen to you when I could have prevented it. Now you answer," he adds in a rush, not quite wanting to leave those words hanging in the air, "Why did you kiss me?"

Another of those long silences, the air between them heavy. "Because you listened to me," they finally say reluctantly, like the words have to be dragged free, "And you saw me. And you still heard me and saw me even after you learned how damaged I am. And no one has done that for a very long time. Can I kiss you again?"

Beckett answers with his body. Closes the space between them, kisses them like he's drowning, because he's realised that a world without Sascha Vykos in it is not one he wants to experience. And, damn it all, but hadn't Ameirin been right in the end? Vykos was not, had never been his enemy. They were his shadow, the other side of the coin. They fit into each other like pieces of a puzzle, like answers to complementary questions.

If it was an answer to make the world, their world, make sense that they both sought, then why not seek that answer together?

Vykos' hands slide into Beckett's hair, tugs hard enough that Beckett feels a growl that's part him and part his Beast rumble out his throat. He bites their lip (not quite hard enough to draw blood), every instinct wanting to _claim, own, possess_ ; it's only sheer stubbornness and the knowledge that Vykos is unlikely to respond well to it that keeps his Beast in check.

Those hands slide from his hair down to his collarbones, and Beckett gasps against Vykos' mouth as _something_ sparks through his skin, simple long-forgotten physical pleasure and arousal. It dazes him, enough for Vykos to nudge him onto his back, straddling him in one smooth movement; Beckett can just retain enough presence of mind to take note of the delicious (albeit darkened) image that is Vykos straddling his hips in only one of Beckett's oversized shirts before those magical fingers trail up beneath his nightshirt to tease sparks of pleasure from his skin.

"How are you doing that?" he asks wonderingly, and he can just see the shape of Vykos' grin in the dark.

"Vicissitude can be used like a hammer or like a scalpel," they say, and before Beckett can protest he doesn't really want either of those near him, they add, "Or like a pen, or a pair of tweezers. You can cut and sever and remake, or you can awaken the body, speak to the nerves, remind them what it's like to feel pleasure of the flesh."

Beckett is certainly feeling hazy enough now to confirm Vykos' words. His shirt is more or less hanging on by a sleeve, and Vykos' hands are everywhere; exploring the lines and contours of his upper body, tracing muscles, leaving sparks and bursts of physical ecstasy in their wake. He feels hypersensitised, every square inch of skin vibrantly awake; the softness of the sheets beneath him, the cool air of the room, the soft cool weight of Vykos' body on his all playing delightful havoc with his senses.

It's almost too much. Until now, he's barely touched Vykos in return, too mindful of his claws; now, he trails them carefully, delicately up their pale thighs, slipping under the shirt to rest on their hips.

Vykos' hands go still.

"No," they say, voice almost calm, casual; almost relaxed. "No."

And they slip off Beckett, off the bed. Walk to the door and let themself out, the door closing with something too close to a slam for comfort; Beckett props himself up on his elbows and stares at the shut door and wonders what the hell just happened.

It takes Beckett a handful of long minutes before he can bring himself to rise, to shower, dressing slowly and with faltering hands. He sighs when he sees the neatly piled clothes on the dresser, bone ring still atop it; gathering them carefully, he leaves his room and the messy bed, knocks carefully on Vykos' door with the back of his knuckles.

There's no reply. Beckett calls out, waits, knocks again, waits. Finally, with an announcement of, "I'm coming in," he does just that, and finds the room...

Completely empty. The drawers are half-pulled, and the shirt he had lent them flung over the bed; they had dressed in a hurry and then left.

Beckett stands in the midst of the room, feeling the emptiness of it, and sighs again. Sets the folded clothes and the ring on the dresser, then ventures upstairs, keeping an eye out for any sign of Vykos.

He finds Ameirin in one of the living rooms, gazing out the expansive windows to the bird sanctuary sprawling below. "Beckett," he says politely enough without turning, "I am not pleased with this, I hope you know."

"'This'?" Beckett asks carefully, stepping forward to stand beside him.

Ameirin glances at him sidelong. "Our mutual friend's departure. One of my agents has it on good authority that they just talked their way into getting a ride via private charter to the main island. I don't think I need to explain the risks of leaving right now, do I?"

Beckett groans. "Believe me, I had nothing to do with it," he grumbles, then stops himself short, because he may well have indeed. "Is it safe, the main island?"

Raising both hands in a shrug, Ameirin cants his head to one side. "Not nearly as safe as staying here in the villa. Still, the islands as a whole are warded - so long as they don't try anything stupid like flying out altogether, they should remain more or less intact."

"More or less," Beckett repeats drily. "Wonderful. I'll grab the limbs, you can take the torso."

Ameirin chuckles, turns to face him properly. "Well, there is nothing to be done for it now. Come - I will apply the next cleansing. I would have done it on Vykos too before they left, but they seemed... impatient to leave."

"Wonderful," Beckett says, and lets Ameirin lead him to the sofa for the next application of the ritual.

He can't help but think this is his fault. The strange intimacy they had shared, Vykos' touches, his own, their reaction to it, their rapid departure. He's done _something_ wrong, upset them in some way, and now they're gone.

He's distracted through the ritual. Distracted as he checks in on Cesare (in the middle of what looks like a very nice dinner, sipping a drink, socialising with Ameirin's staff and generally looking like he's got some much-needed and much-deserved rest and relaxation). Still distracted as he browses Ameirin's library for any new texts to solve their little methuselah problem, electing to gather up his materials and make use of one of the studies instead of returning to his room to work.

It feels... not quite right, returning there alone.

At some point near midnight, Ameirin pops his head into the study, confirms that one of his agents has spotted Vykos at Seven Mile Beach on Grand Cayman. (Clothes shopping, of all things - still, it makes sense, given that any luggage they may have had is likely still in Constantinople and... not exactly accessible right now.) Beckett thanks him and returns to his study, trying not to be irritated at Vykos risking their life for a shopping spree and failing.

They haven't returned by dawn. Beckett sleeps alone that day and tries to pretend that the bed doesn't feel empty, rises that evening for a drink, a cleansing, and an update from Ameirin that Vykos had been spotted at a nightclub, a bar, and another nightclub.

Beckett grumbles, but eventually retreats back to his room to study instead, staring at the Book of the Grave-War until his eyes go blurry. It's a good way to pass the hours, at least, and when Raoul pops by to give him a message from Ameirin that Vykos has been spotted boarding a charter boat to come back to the villa, Beckett is almost surprised to see that it's just gone three in the morning.

It's at least another hour before his door opens. Vykos - eyelids smeared with dark makeup and hair mussed, clad in oversized boots, jeans that look like they've been painted on, and a shirt that definitely doesn't cover their stomach - waltzes in without a care in the world, dropping onto their back on Beckett's bed and giving him an upside-down stare.

Beckett stares back, nonplussed.

"So how was it?" he finally asks in lieu of the several dozen questions, concerns, and recriminations he wants to say instead.

Vykos waves a hand, nails painted gloss red (or, at least, Beckett is hoping it's nail polish). "Good, good," they grin, and it's a hazy, disoriented grin. "We - I, I mean, I - went shopping, went clubbing. Got fucked a couple of times, killed a couple of kine. Not disconnected. I think I'm high from the last one. Cocaine, or - speed, maybe? No, cocaine, what am I thinking, this is the Caymans." They cock their head, long curtain of hair slipping over the side of the bed. "Does it bother you, that someone got to fuck this body before you did?"

Beckett, for a long moment, wars between asking 'are you alright?' and 'are you insane?' and instead settles for, "Are you _done_?"

Vykos grins again, and this time, Beckett can see how blown their pupils are, eyes almost black. "Why? Do you want to come with me next time? I bet people would want to fuck you too. We'd have to go clothes shopping first, the whole 'Indiana Jones with claws' look is charming in a tomb but useless in a nightclub."

"I don't -" Beckett starts, stops, and shakes his head. Indiana Jones with claws, _indeed_. "Do you appreciate how much of a risk you made? You know better than anyone what's looking for us! We know they have agents here already - what if you had been spotted? Until we work out how we're going to stop those two, we're in serious danger, and you risked your life to go _clubbing_!" Vaguely aware that he's shouting, he flings a hand in Vykos' direction. "I hope you're happy with yourself, because you gambled everything for the sake of your own enjoyment!"

Laughter. Vykos rolls over onto their stomach, resting their head in their folded arms. "D'you know what I was really looking for? Not just clothes and sex and blood. Do you know why I spent two nights crawling amidst the kine?"

"Enlighten me," Beckett sighs.

"I was looking for someone who would rape me," they say, and they're still, still grinning. "The more violently, the better."

He can't quite hide a wince. "Well, I suppose draining would-be rapists is better than going after your standard partying -"

"Not to drain," Vykos interrupts, and now the grin has faded, that intense black-eyed stare fixed on Beckett's face. "I would have let them do it. I would have let them fuck me and use me and hurt me and make me bleed. I was going to let them do whatever they wanted to do to me then leave me to rot."

Beckett's silence is appalled. He can't understand, can't even begin to imagine why someone would intentionally seek out their own violation - especially given the memories of very real violations they're currently working through, the full horror of their experiences laid bare. "For the love of god, _why_?" he finally asks, staring at Vykos, at the manic, furious look on their face.

(Maybe, he thinks, they are a bit mad after all.)

"Do you know the worst part about how it happened?" Vykos says, and any levity has gone, now. "With Michael, I was so buried under Gregorius' rewriting of my soul that I _welcomed_ it. I _wanted_ it. I was complicit in my own violation, and even though the memory later made me almost frenzy in sheer panicked terror, at the time I was forced to love it. And the Eldest - he knew I would never fight back against Ilias. He knew I would never strike or hurt him. He used Ilias as a shield against me, even as Ilias shielded me from the full extent of him and made it something of pleasure."

They laugh, but it's a bitter, angry little laugh.

"It was violation. I know that. But the memories I have of those events, the memories I have of _being raped_ involve pleasure and complacency. I couldn't fight back. I couldn't cry or scream or _show_ that it hurt. I couldn't say no. They forced me to love my own destruction, and just this once, I wanted to revisit the past in this body that's so much like my younger self and let it _know_ just what we survived."

Beckett thinks he can almost understand, and he hates that he does. It would be catharsis, a release eight hundred years delayed. But what a way to get that catharsis, so much risk of trauma or injury or destruction; he shakes his head despairingly. "I'm sorry," he says softly, and he's not sure what, exactly, he's apologising for.

Vykos' lips curve up in a cynical smile. "I suppose there's no doubt now that I'm mad. What kind of a sane person would willingly seek this out?" They scrub a hand through their hair, leaving it even more in disarray. "You should have let me burn. Here, or in Constantinople. That, at least, would have been an act of mercy."

"Out of the question," Beckett says, and glares. "You can get through this. I don't know if you'll be the same person you were, but who can say any of us are precisely the same person we used to be? We may not age, but we can still _grow_."

"You _do_ realise I'm more than three times your age, do you not?" Vykos straightens up, leans back against the headboard with a sound of profound exhaustion. "Believe me, there is a point where your ability to grow just... stops. Eventually you will look back and realise that the time you've spent is meaningless and you've been static for a century or four. Perhaps I did make a mistake tonight and last night. Perhaps I can't restructure those memories, and I am condemned to spend the remains of my unlife as the puppet he shaped me into."

Beckett shakes his head immediately. "I don't believe that. You saw yourself as a puppet? Fine. Your strings have been cut. So for god's sake, you now have the opportunity to stand on your own two legs and _change_." Carefully, like he's approaching a wild animal, he steps closer to the bed, takes a careful seat opposite Vykos at its foot. "You can heal from this, and it doesn't have to involve -" For a moment, he struggles with the words, shakes his head. "Throwing yourself at people who would hurt you for their own gratification."

For a long, long time, Vykos stares at him. Beckett watches them back evenly, expression drawn, dismayed at the pain he knows the Tzimisce is feeling. If this is a puzzle, how can he solve it? If this has a solution, then what the hell is it?

Finally, Vykos lets out a breathless laugh. "Silver and pink. Sadness and compassion. Of course it is." They shake their head, letting their long locks of dark hair fall over their face like a shield. "What if you did it?"

"Did what?" Beckett asks; a second later he realises and draws back in disbelief and horror. "What - no! No, no, absolutely not, I will _not_."

There are lines he will not cross. Lines he won't even approach for fear of what the Beast may do if let loose. Hurting someone, hurting someone _on purpose_ , is one of those lines; he feels almost a long-dead remnant of nausea building in his abdomen.

Vykos doesn't raise their head. "Why not?" they say quietly. "It gives me what I need. It won't be _real_ , you just need to be... rough. It will keep me safe - no 'throwing myself at people who'd hurt me for their own gratification'," they quote bitterly. "And we have come under conflict so many times before, and you've made your disgust at my actions patently clear - don't you think it'd be just the littlest bit gratifying to hurt me?"

"I'm not going to _rape you_!"

"You wouldn't be. At all. I'll be consenting to everything, just not -" Vykos makes a frustrated gesture. "I would be... remembering. Putting myself back there. Only this time I'd be able to say no, instead of being forced to enjoy it. This time I would be able to rewrite the narrative. And if it's any consolation at all, you know well enough I'm significantly more powerful than you. You would only be able to overpower me if I was letting you."

Beckett pushes his hands into his hair and tugs hard. This is... madness. It's a completely unhinged, completely unhealthy idea, and - and Vykos is already resigned to his rejection, shoulders slumped, staring at the blankets bunched up in their fist.

"If I didn't," Beckett says, voice low, "What would you do?"

"I don't know. Go back to the island. Try my original idea."

He gazes at them for a long, long time. His own hands are clenched tight, claws digging into his palms, and the pain is a distraction, and that, that is what makes him think he's starting to understand.

"If we do this, we do it properly. We have a safe word. If it gets to be too much - for _either_ of us - we use it and finish it, and both of us must respect that." He must be insane, too, to even consider doing this. "Do you have a word you want to use?"

Vykos lifts their head, stares back at Beckett searchingly, piercingly. Then they smile, and there's something approaching hopeless relief there. "That old standby, 'garlic'. And three taps as a safe gesture."

Beckett exhales hard, then manages a faint, weary smile. "In that case, go talk to Prospero. You haven't had the cleansing ritual for a few days. See if he can get those drugs out of your system, too. Then, when you're back, we can..." He waves his hand hopelessly. "Proceed, as it was."

Nodding once, a shaky smile on their lips, Vykos clambers from the bed - then leans forward, presses soft, cool lips to Beckett's.

"Thank you," they murmur, and they're gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mulțumesc" = Romanian for "thank you"


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Consensual non-consent, deliberate triggering of traumatic flashbacks to rape, may be triggering

_[PRIVATE - NOT TO PUBLISH]_

_I must be truly insane to go along with this plan._

_No, I will not commit what it is to paper, even to myself. For one thing, it sounds absurd - for another, I am not the only one this affects, and I will not betray my companion in this... venture in this way. Some things do not need to be spoken of explicitly, but I feel I cannot proceed until I have got some of my feelings and reservations out._

_I have done many an unpleasant thing in my years. For the most part, they have been to solve a mystery, or to learn something new. This sounds altruistic, I suppose - it is, allegedly, to help someone. But the actions I am required to take..._

_I don't have long until we start. But I want to note for the record, even if it's only my own, that I don't know why I have agreed to this, that I must be insane to do it, and that there are very few people I_ would _go this far for - and they are not one of the ones I was expecting to do this for._

_Ludicrous. Completely mad._

_\- B_

This is like a dream. Or a nightmare.

_"No... please, no..."_

In the dimness of the room, Beckett can make out the tears dripping down Vykos' cheeks, the blood smeared over the pale skin of their palms and forearms. His claws are stained red with it, hands tight around their wrists, pressing them into the mattress.

_"Stop, just - stop! No!"_

Their lips are parted, bloodied from where they had bitten down hard when Beckett had first shoved them on to the bed. Their eyes are tightly closed, but the tears are still escaping nonetheless.

_"Please... please, don't do this..."_

Beckett's Beast is a howling savage, battering against the walls he's desperately keeping up. He can't lose control, can't give in; he knows that his Beast will only make him want to _hurt_ and _rend_ and _destroy_ ; despite Vykos' assurance that they are so much stronger than he is, he does not know if they will be able to pull themself free in time to save themself.

Or if they'd want to.

_"Please... Michael..."_

He had done everything right, as best as he could. Had turned off the main light in the room, leaving only the dim desk lamp on. It washes over them now, leaving light and shadow contorting Vykos' features, the desperate fear and anguish written on their face.

_"I trusted you - I adored you - please, don't do this!"_

He had left the light on in the bathroom, had clean towels waiting. Had found unscented bath oil to use as lubricant and set it next to the bed. The words crowding in his skull, he had got out on paper - his fear, his reservations. And then he had positioned himself beside the door, and waited. Waited for Vykos to return, so he might shove them against the wall, kiss them hard enough to leave bruises, let his hands roam greedily over their body and not care for the damage his claws might leave.

_"Michael, I'm sorry."_

He can feel, he thinks, how close Vykos is to frenzy. There's panic lurking just beneath the surface, in the way they shy away from him, fluttering under their skin like a trapped bird. And he needs to keep control of himself, protect them both, ensure neither are lost to the Beast.

_"I'm sorry. I'm sorry! What did I do wrong? I'm sorry!"_

A pause. A breath. Beckett wipes tears, carefully, from beneath Vykos' eyes, cups their cheek in his hand. He doesn't know what role this action will take in whatever is going on in their mind, but - the urge to comfort is too strong to resist, the desperate need for contact and reassurance. And just for a moment, Vykos presses against the touch, the trapped bird calmed just for a handful of seconds.

_"No!"_

They fight, now. The hand freed from Beckett's grasp swipes towards him, nails savagely long and sharp; Beckett manages to catch their wrist when they're an inch from his face, pushes back with all his strength, feels narrow bones grinding together under his grip.

_"Stop this! Don't touch me!"_

Vykos is stronger than him. Beckett knows that, knows he's no match for centuries upon centuries of experience, for the potency of their blood. Knows this, and is able to press their wrist back against the mattress nonetheless, and that - that is a reassurance, that Vykos is still in there, aware enough to moderate their strength, to let Beckett overpower them. That they are not so consumed by their demons that the fight is genuine.

_"I never wanted this -"_

He's close, and the thought frightens and disgusts him. He should not be getting anything from this, should not be letting the Beast rise to the surface, should not be salvaging what pleasure he can from this. The beautiful body beneath him, yes - the words and pleas slipping from their lips, no.

_"Please... please..."_

He kisses them, desperately, greedily. Vykos needs pain, to surrender their power, and Beckett needs comfort, contact, reassurance. And maybe Vykos needs it too, because they part their lips, press into the kiss, moans against his mouth like it's a promise.

_"Please..."_

He wants blood and sex, contact and intimacy. Beckett sinks his fangs into Vykos' throat and drinks deep, the sweet, potent blood filling his mouth, pleasure washing over him and through him. One, two more jerks of his hips and he climaxes hard, the wave of ecstasy blotting all thoughts from his mind.

Vykos throws back their head and screams, arches their back, body tense as a wire through their own climax - then, like it's been cut, they fall limp under him, eyes closed, lips parted, a ragged breath they don't need making their chest rise and fall.

Beckett groans, too wrung out to pull himself off, feeling gentle, unsteady arms wind around his shoulders, clinging like he's a lifeline. "Vykos?" he whispers, "Are you alright?"

No answer for a long moment, then - a short, uncertain nod.

"I made preparations earlier for a shower. I'm going to lift you up, alright?"

Another nod. Beckett steels himself, then pushes himself up, pulls out, feels Vykos' arms tighten around his shoulders as he lifts them carefully.

Awkwardly (Vykos is slender, but still taller than Beckett is), he moves to the bathroom, to the combination shower and tub. Trying his damned hardest not to drop the Tzimisce on their head, he gets the water on, then steps inside, sets Vykos on their feet, lowers them both until Vykos is settled back against his chest.

The hot water is good. Grounding. Beckett sweeps long hair aside and presses a kiss to Vykos' shoulder, then reaches for the washcloth he had found earlier and starts to wash bloodied tears from their cheeks.

It's quiet, now, save for the sound of water. Beckett runs the wash cloth down one arm, teases inside their elbow, takes their hand delicately and smooths it over each individual finger. First one arm, then the next. Rinses the cloth, watches blood swirl down the plug hole, then strokes it delicately down their throat, where he's healed the bite wound he had inflicted but has still left smears of crimson.

It's slow, methodical. Gentle. It's much-needed nurturing and comfort that he craves, that he thinks Vykos craves too; a soft, intimate touch, the calm after the storm.

By the time he reaches their feet, Vykos seems relatively lucid again, moving their legs so Beckett can cleanse them more easily, head resting more deliberately back against his shoulder. He gives them an uncertain smile.

"How do you feel?" he asks cautiously.

Vykos stays silent a moment longer, then sighs. "Traumatised. Angry. Betrayed." A faint, exhausted smile tugs their lips. "Relieved. Thank you."

"It helped, then?" _Please, please tell me it helped. That this wasn't for nothing._

"I think so." Vykos sighs, closes their eyes. "I was... remembering. Michael, mostly. Everything he did to me. But this time I wasn't passive."

Beckett nods uncertainly. "So long as it did what it meant to."

There's an uncertain smile on their lips. "Time will tell, I suppose." They hesitate, then add, quietly, "It must have been hard on you, too."

Beckett nods, seeing no reason to lie. "I didn't like seeing you like that," he admits freely. "Knowing that you were hurting and I was the cause of it."

" _Michael_ was the cause of it," Vykos says sharply. "My sire and Gregorius Dimities were the cause of it. The Eldest and the Dracon were the cause of it. _You_ were the one who let me face those demons again and tell them no." They hesitate for a moment, tilting their head back against Beckett's shoulder thoughtfully. "Of course, I already gave my sire a rather convincing rejection of his actions when I consumed him."

Blinking at the casual admission of diablerie, Beckett smiles wryly. "I imagine it was satisfying."

"You have _no_ idea."

"I don't, honestly," he says, voice light, and Vykos manages a laugh, closing their eyes. Beckett, quite unable to resist, runs a careful hand through their hair, mindful not to snag it with his claws. "Vykos, what do we do now?"

Vykos cracks open an eye. "You can start by calling me Sascha. I believe we are at _least_ on first-name basis now."

Beckett grins, and presses another kiss into Vykos' - into Sascha's - hair. "Sascha," he murmurs, just to savour the shape of the name in his mouth.

He hadn’t imagined this. If someone had asked him to even try to picture it a week or two ago, he would have laughed in their face. It feels... nice, he thinks.

Taking a moment to fumble with the bath plug and to switch the stream of water from the showerhead to the bath faucet, Beckett relaxes back against the tub, his eyes closing. "But still, what now? This is... a change in relationship I must admit I definitely didn't anticipate."

"Nor I," Sascha admits, warming their feet under the hot water. "There are times I wanted to feed you your stupid sunglasses if it would shut you up regarding some of your less plausible theories."

"There are times where I would have stolen the entire contents of your libraries and burnt the empty shelves out of sheer spite," Beckett admits cheerily, then cracks an eye open. "Say, will I be able to read from them now?"

Sascha tilts their head back to give him a skeptical look. "I don't know. Sex is one thing, but giving you access to my books? That may be an intimacy too far."

The most amusing part, Beckett thinks, is that neither of them are particularly exaggerating.

"I'll let you read Book of the Grave-War."

"Deal," Sascha says before Beckett has even finished the sentence. They hesitate for a moment, then smile ruefully. "I suppose I should _probably_ apologise for attempting to send you to your final death in Berlin."

Beckett does laugh at that. "Probably. Still, I got the book, didn't I?"

"Mm." Sascha falls silent, and Beckett can sense, despite the levity of the conversation, their supreme exhaustion. It's been... a long week or so, and he's weary himself; a long, relaxed vacation wouldn't at all go amiss.

No real chance of that. He sighs.

"I suppose," Sascha says cautiously, "We keep this as a... developing thing. I don't think I'm willing - or able - to commit to anything beyond that at the moment, and there's still..." A hesitation. "There is still the matter of Ilias. I am not sure if seeking him out is wise, but I need answers. I need to know what happened to him."

Beckett nods once. "We can go to New York. I don't know if he'll still be there, but it's worth a try."

(And, he thinks, and they might learn more of what had actually been lying beneath New York, and hope and pray that there truly aren't Antediluvians wandering about.)

Sascha nods, hums thoughtfully. "And you? Are there others in your life?"

"Anatole and Lucita." He smiles, but it's a little pained, thinking of the last he had heard from Anatole. "Perhaps you know Lucita. She is Sabbat, at least nominally."

"Ambrosio Luis Monçada's childe? We've crossed paths." They huff a laugh. "One of the few poor souls with a more detestable sire than myself."

Beckett snorts, making a mental note that Sascha should have a good talk to Jan Pieterzoon some time and learn just how much common ground they have. "You would be surprised how many abusive sires there are out there. I suppose I was lucky enough in that regard."

A hum of agreement, and thoughtful silence. The tub is full enough; Beckett switches off the water and lets himself relax into its warmth. Sascha sighs, head tilted back against Beckett's shoulder, trailing lazy patterns with the tips of their nails against his thigh.

It's... calm. Relaxing. A much-needed fragment of peace, especially given the stresses of the night.

Had it only been earlier this evening since Vykos had returned from the other island? Since all they had done? It feels like Beckett has aged ten years since the sunset, and with sunrise not far off, he feels exhausted.

They should probably try to get back to the bed before the sun actually rises. As pleasant as the bath is, he has the feeling neither of them will enjoy waking up in cold water, having spent the day gradually turning into prunes. "Should we get to bed?" Beckett murmurs, tucking a wet strand of hair behind Sascha's ear.

Wordlessly, they nod; Beckett pulls the plug, helps Sascha up, hands them a towel. They're steady enough on their feet as they dry off, but he can't help but notice the self-consciousness that's taken over them, turning their back as they dry their hair.

They had pulled away the other evening, when Beckett had touched them. And while they had endured his touch during their... last activities, it had not exactly been an ordinary circumstance. Beckett feels his brow furrow, watching thoughtfully as Sascha wraps the towel around their shoulders and pads back to the bedroom.

He follows, towel around his waist, the smell of drying blood catching the attention of his Beast. Sascha catches his eye, nodding once; they smell it too. "My room?" they ask softly.

Beckett nods, gathers up something to sleep in and clothes for the next night, then follows them out the hall and to the next room - free of blood and distractions, cool and unused over the past few days. A wry smile tugs his lips when he sees just how many shopping bags there are piled against one wall. "Do you think you bought enough?" he says lightly.

Sascha laughs. "My belongings are still in Constantinople. I didn't think it was the best idea to go pick them up," they say pointedly, rummaging through one before straightening up empty-handed, padding barefoot to the bed, and reaching for the shirt they had borrowed from Beckett a couple of days earlier, glaring like they're daring him to say something. "Not a word."

"Not one." He manages a good four or five seconds of silence, then adds with a grin, "I thought you weren't fond of the 'Indiana Jones with claws' look?"

"Yes, well. It has its occasional charms," Sascha says sulkily, and drags the shirt over their head.

Beckett turns away hastily to hide his grin.

They don't quite fall into each other's arms, even if they have decided by unspoken agreement that they'll still be sharing a bed. Sascha burrows into the blankets like a rabbit, only their dark hair and eyes showing over the top; Beckett stretches out beside them, a foot away if Sascha seeks the comfort of touch.

For a long, lingering moment, they gaze at each other, then Sascha leans in, presses a gentle kiss to Beckett's lips.

"Sleep well," they murmur, then roll over in the bed and turn out the lights.

He sleeps more easily that day. Evening falls about the island and he wakes refreshed, Sascha just beginning to stir, blinking blearily from beside him.

"Evening," Beckett yawns; Sascha smiles back tiredly, gaze slowly focusing on Beckett's face with unnerving intensity.

"Evening," they finally murmur back, leaning in for a lingering kiss, one with heat in it, with intent and focus. Beckett immediately lets his eyes fall shut, lets himself be drawn in, perfectly content with letting Sascha take the lead.

That morning, he had had all the power, given to him by Sascha in a twisted form of coping. Now, he's handing it back, leaving his faith in the fearsome power of Sascha's hands.

He had been afraid of those hands, once. Now, somehow, a fragile trust is developing between them. He would trust Sascha's hands, because Sascha had trusted him with their soul.

One of those hands, now, steals under the shirt he had worn to bed. Beckett shivers as cool fingertips ghost over his abdomen, leaving trails of pleasure over his skin; when Sascha breaks the kiss long enough to murmur, "Let me thank you for this morning," all he can do is nod.

An attempt at his own touch, now, one of his hands drifting across Sascha's bare leg. Again, Sascha freezes; this time, at least, they only catch his wrist gently, tucks his arm back, repeats, "Let me." And Beckett has his answer, now - he doesn't reach out to touch them again, but lets himself be touched instead.

Later. He can ask later, when both of them are ready for it.

His clothes get dropped somewhere off the side of the bed. He doesn't see where and doesn't bother to think about it, focused instead on Sascha straddling his hips again, still wearing his shirt, their eyes dark and intense and focused. And their mouth, it seems, is just as talented as their hands; the kisses they leave, the bite marks (some that draw both blood and shudders of pleasure), the teasing tongue occupies the whole of Beckett's focus.

"Sascha," he says, and "Oh god keep doing that," and "God _fuck_ ," and " _Sascha_." Sascha, crouched now between Beckett's trembling legs, glances up to meet Beckett's gaze darkly, simply watches, watches Beckett desperately try to maintain composure beneath the twin assaults of their hands and mouth.

No, never mind. Beckett drops his head back against the pillow and groans openly, lets any pretence of composure drop and lets Sascha unravel him (not literally, thankfully; it's always a concern with Tzimisce).

There's the very faintest hint of disquiet, that he wants to do the same to Sascha, to see _them_ unravelled and lost in pleasure, to see ecstasy on their face instead of agony. It's mostly buried beneath what Sascha is doing now; the way they're wringing physical pleasure from him beyond all Cainite instincts. Vicissitude to awaken the nerves, he remembers fuzzily; to make them remember what it feels like to be alive.

Sascha lifts their head now, and Beckett makes an embarrassingly needy noise. He's so close that even the handful of seconds it takes for Sascha to make their way back up his body is a torture, to replace their mouth with the cool stroke of their hand; when they kiss him, he tastes himself.

"Sascha, _please_ ," he almost whimpers, and is fairly sure he sees a glimmer of triumph and pride in their dark eyes as they draw away, lips parted, fangs fully extended.

Beckett doesn't even hesitate to bare his throat.

There is nothing like it. Nothing like the sheer blinding pleasure of the Kiss - not sex, not drugs, not obscure first-edition rare books. He thinks he's cried out, but he suspects he's simply drifted off into some other realm of bodily sensation, clinging to Sascha like they're keeping him from being lost entirely.

Coming down off that high and re-emerging into the real world is a rude shock. Beckett is naked, sticky, and despite the early hour of the evening, he's weary; beside him, Sascha is licking his blood off their lips.

"Maybe," they say carefully, "We should have been more... cautious. With biting."

"Next time we can get little corks and put them on the ends of our fangs," Beckett yawns, then turns to look at them properly. "It's not uneven, though. You tasted me, I tasted you. And it's still only the one time. Next time, we can exercise self-control." He hesitates for a moment, then adds, softly, "Would you like there to be a next time?"

Sascha makes a wordless noise of confirmation. "I would not be opposed."

Beckett can't quite hide his grin. "Good. We should probably get cleaned up and go to see Prospero, start working out our plans." He slips out from under the sheets, seeking out his towel from the night before to clean himself off, his clothes to dress. "We can talk more about it later, I think."

Doing much the same on the other side of the bed, Sascha nods, keeping their back to Beckett as they dress - very tight jeans, an oversized white t-shirt bearing a colourful logo and the words, 'Welcome to the Caymans!', a pair of trainers covered in silver glitter. Beckett chuckles at the last items, and Sascha flashes an uncertain smile, pulling their long hair back into a ponytail.

"See you upstairs," they murmur, and escape the room, leaving Beckett half-dressed, gazing at the door, and wondering where on earth to go from there.


	5. Chapter 5

**[RECORDING BEGINS]**

**Prospero:** Ahh, gentlemen. Welcome back to the land of the unliving.

 **Beckett:** 'Land of the unliving'?

 **Vykos:** 'Gentlemen'?

 **Prospero:** [chuckling] So to speak.

 **Beckett:** ...Anyway. Now that we're all here, we should really work out what our plans are, vis-à-vis our little Trinity problem.

 **Vykos:** Probably our only saving grace is that Michael has long since lost any remnants of sanity he has, and it's likely that Mary has as well. If we're able to formulate a well-strategised plan, we may have the luxury of at least being able to outthink the delusional old bastard. What we do not know is the second member of the Trinity. [pause] There is also the matter of the Dracon. We simply do not know what state he's in, after his... extraction.

 **Beckett:** Finding out who that second member is should probably be a priority, too. And maybe getting me some body armour.

 **Prospero:** Mm. Speaking of the Dracon. Myca, how are you feeling?

 **Vykos:** [lengthy pause] 'Vykos', if you please. 'Sascha', if you absolutely must. And is it really relevant how I'm _feeling_?

 **Prospero:** Believe it or not, it is. If we can determine _your_ state of mind before and after the events in Constantinople, it should give us a good understanding of the Dracon's current state of mind. After all, you are the one best placed to determine that.

 **Vykos:** [another long pause, followed by a sigh] Fine. Fine. But this does not leave the room, alright? Beckett, turn your recorder off.

 **Beckett:** Oh -

**[RECORDING ENDS]**

-

_Vykos has given me permission to paraphrase their comments, so we can get some idea of what state the Dracon is in. In short, they are feeling: frayed, perception of memory has changed, less of a hair trigger temper, less of an urge to hurt people for the sake of feeling better, less self-destructive. Calmer and more stable, in a physical sense - less urge to keep shifting and changing and becoming something else. Makes sense if the Dracon is a Metamorphosist._

_Some fairly significant psychological effects on Vykos. Those don't pertain to the Dracon himself, so I haven't included those here._

_In short - the Dracon is an unstable, self-loathing, bitter, sadomasochistic mess, and I am frankly amazed and impressed that Vykos has actually survived this long with that thing in them. It’s been a rough 771 years._

_\- B_

-

**[RECORDING BEGINS]**

**Beckett:** Well. He sounds like a real winner.

 **Vykos:** You cannot even begin to imagine. I'm not sure he is still actively suicidal, since he never... encouraged me to try anything like that. But the self-loathing was... not easy to deal with.

 **Prospero:** That chapter of your life is over now, at least.

 **Vykos:** Mm. [pause] I can guess at how he is mentally and emotionally, but physically is quite another matter. If he has been able to reform, he will be formidable. When I first encountered him, the power I could sense coming off him even deep in torpor was alarming.

 **Beckett:** I suppose our best course of action is just information-checking. We know Michael and Mary are a terrifying combination, but we also need to find out what state the Dracon is in, and who the other Trinity member is. Until we know those, we can't actually make any solid plans.

 **Vykos:** I have contacts in Çanakkale and Ankara, staying well clear of Constantinople proper. They may have further contacts in the city.

 **Beckett:** And I know someone in İzmir. Well, actually, in Ephesus. Well, actually, _under_ Ephesus.

 **Prospero:** Wonderful. For now, I would like you both to stay - as well as the cleansing regime, I can help keep you safe. Assuming, of course, there are no more late night shopping trips.

 **Vykos:** Fine.

 **Beckett:** Works for me. May we use your library?

 **Prospero:** Of course. I also have a computer with an internet connection you may make use of.

 **Vykos:** Oh good, I need to catch up on my MySpace.

**[LONG PAUSE]**

**Beckett:** 'My my'?

 **Vykos:** A joke. It was a joke. I am capable of telling jokes, sometimes.

 **Beckett:** 'My my', though?

 **Prospero:** Good, that's settled! Stay a bit longer for cleansing, and I shall have Milt warm up your evening meal.

 **Beckett:** Oh good, I was getting thirsty.

 **Prospero:** And may I also add, I am delighted to see you took up my suggestion? Beckett, I shall have your bed linen replaced before the sunrise!

**[PAUSE]**

**Beckett:** You -

**[RECORDING ENDS]**

-

Ameirin doesn't accompany them to the library; Beckett has been enough that he can guide Sascha there himself, and it's relatively peaceful as they work their way through the halls together.

"You know," he finally says, exceedingly glad he can't blush, "When he said he has eyes and ears all over the islands, I didn't think that included the bedrooms."

Sascha gives him a bemused look. "We weren't exactly... subtle," they point out, then wince. "Hopefully the finer detail went over his head."

"Yes. Yes, one can only hope." Beckett gives Sascha a sidelong look. "How are you doing? All that - it didn't seem easy to talk about."

Their shoulders hunch, almost a reflex; when they straighten up, it's with deliberate effort. "I managed. But I will admit I am relieved we're not going after them immediately. I'm not sure I'm ready to face him again." Their voice is soft and they don't meet Beckett's eye, and he can understand completely both Sascha's fears and the shame behind admitting it.

"When we do," he promises without thinking much about it, "I'll be with you. I swear it."

The ghost of a smile. "Thank you."

Down another flight of stairs. The library still a few minutes walk. Beckett glances at Sascha uncertainly, then asks, "It's as good as time as any to ask. May I ask why you don't like being touched?"

Sascha, to Beckett's profound surprise, actually laughs a little - a short, resigned little sound with no humour in it. "Oh, I know the answer to _that_ ," they say, and shake their head, shoving both hands in their pockets. "Although I never had the name to put to it, before. It's some good, old-fashioned, completely mundane dysphoria."

"Ah," Beckett says, quietly.

Sascha sighs, shoulders hunching again. "This is, as close as I can determine, my original body. When I hated being touched the last time I wore it, I only knew it was somehow _wrong_. Astonishingly, the concept of being genderqueer had yet to arrive in tenth century Europe." A wry smile. "So I grew up knowing my body felt like it belonged to someone else, and even after learning vicissitude, I feared what I created would be worse than what I abandoned. With the Dracon, the urge to change myself overrode that fear, even it was to something alien and inexplicable, because that at least was still an improvement."

"Could you make changes again? I know it's not beyond your skill set," Beckett suggests as they near the library. "And they wouldn't necessarily have to be, well, alien. You could make yourself look the same, only more feminine."

"Which may not help either," Sascha points out. "I did think for a time that if I was not a man, then perhaps I would be happier as a woman. I wasn't, because I'm not. I know that what I seek is likely androgyny. I'm just not... sure how to go about it."

It's an admission to a lack of knowledge that Beckett finds surprising. "I think you could use your intuition," he starts, then trails off, because they have now stepped inside the library and Sascha's eyes have immediately widened in delight, the conversation immediately forgotten in favour of books and words.

Beckett grins to himself. He had reacted much the same the first time he had seen Ameirin's library, and although it pales in comparison to some of the world's greatest, it's still enough to enact paroxysms of glee in any bookworm.

With a distracted, "Later," Sascha immerses themself in words, heading straight for the extensive history collection. Beckett watches them out of the corner of their eye as they explore the shelves and stacks, trailing their fingertips reverently over the books' spines like a lover; like they had touched Beckett only an hour or two before.

He's smiling, he realises suddenly. Smiling with warmth blooming in his chest, watching Sascha's obvious enjoyment, their joy at the wealth of information within reach. Beckett knows that feeling well, feels it every time he gets his hands on some piece of writing that will reshape and redefine his world, knows well the joy of learning and the pleasure of words, and he absolutely cannot keep himself from smiling at the tangible proof here that this is something he shares with someone he -

He - 

"Fuck," Beckett says.

Sascha, broken from their reverie, glances up and blinks. "Hm?"

"Something I forgot to ask Prospero about," Beckett lies quickly, "Now I have to go all the way back up. I won't be too long, you... keep enjoying those books."

And he makes a hasty but dignified escape, or, more correctly, runs away.

No. No, it's absolutely not fair, Beckett thinks furiously as he storms his way through the halls of Ameirin's vast haven, no desire to actually go talk to the man but definitely feeling the urge to get _away_. Away from the library and, more importantly, away from Sascha.

Who he's just realised he's in impending danger of developing genuine feelings for.

Fuck.

They've tried to kill each other! Multiple times! His reaction to finding Sascha at the same place as he, up to a week ago, has been dismay, not delight! If not outright enemies, they're certainly rivals, competing over the same artefacts, the same information, the same knowledge!

(But, whispers a traitorous little voice in the back of his head, what if they had never had to fight, after all?)

He's hated Sascha's inhumanity, how they've never worn the same face twice. Their casual sadism, the vicissitude they use as a weapon of torture. Their status within the Sabbat, the cruelty they've inspired.

(But, that little voice murmurs, how much of that had been the Dracon, and how much had actually been Sascha? Could he really judge them based on a situation where they had literally not been themself, consumed by the madness of a maniacally bitter methuselah, for centuries on end? Who was to say he would fare any better, should the same had happened to him? What had he done simply to satisfy his own curiosity?)

It's sympathy gone overboard, he thinks. That's all. He feels sorry for Sascha, how they've dealt with so much pain and violation and betrayal over their life. The kissing had been for comfort; the sex had been a weird coping mechanism and then a thank you. His worry over Sascha, his fear for them, that had just been natural concern for someone he knew was unstable.

He definitely doesn't have feelings for them. He doesn't.

 _Fuck_.

He's made his way back up to the top levels of the haven, now. Slouches back to his room, dragging his feet; Ameirin's staff have indeed changed his bedding, and he tries hard not to feel too embarrassed about it. Desperate for anything to take his mind off things, he returns to attempting Book of the Grave-War translations, fails utterly, and settles for leaning back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, wishing things were just a little more _normal_.

He wants to be immersed in casually life-threatening adventures. He wants to be barely escaping without being set on fire, or eaten, or some other painful and inconvenient fate. He wants Anatole and Lucita, to be laughing with them, spending long hours of companionable silence with them, curled up in bed with them, but he hasn't seen Lucita since Johannesburg and... well, thinking about Anatole and their last parting in Jerusalem is still painful, so maybe that train of thought isn't the most useful, after all.

He'd almost rather be back in Constantinople, trying to at least do _something _to stop the new Trinity, rather than sitting here in seclusion and safety and trying to work out if he's falling in love with Sascha bloody Vykos.__

__No, it's no use. He doesn't _want_ to be sitting here on his own, brooding (or, if he's feeling less generous and more honest, sulking) over his feelings. He _wants_ to be back down in the library, reading and researching in pleasant company, and if that company is Sascha, then perhaps he should just give in to inevitability and go with it._ _

__If nothing else, he's greatly enjoying kissing them._ _

__Lost in thoughts both melancholy and confusing, Beckett finally puts the book away and wanders out of the room, making his way back up to the living room that Ameirin has spent much of his time in. It's raining again, and the sound of the downpour on the windows that had been muted downstairs is loud; Beckett stands for a moment and watches the rain fall._ _

__Ameirin gives him a welcoming nod. "Back so soon? I had expected you to be buried in the books for the rest of the night."_ _

__"Mm. I was feeling a touch claustrophobic." True enough, at least. He gazes at the downpour and vaguely wishes he could go outside after all, his Gangrel instincts craving more movement and freedom, less introspection and worrying. "I don't suppose there'll be much running around the bird sanctuary at this point."_ _

__"Not unless you want to come back smelling like wet dog," Ameirin chuckles, then fixes him with an intense blue stare. "May I ask what's going on with you and My- Sascha?"_ _

__Beckett groans, throwing himself into an armchair. "That's exactly what I'm trying _not_ to think about."_ _

__A raised eyebrow, to that. "I assume it wasn't just hate fucking, then."_ _

__"Ameirin, please... please never say 'hate fucking' again."_ _

__Ameirin chuckles, a little too gleefully. "But I'm right, am I not?"_ _

__Beckett lowers his glasses to glare at him more effectively, then slumps in the armchair. "You are," he says with a sigh of defeat. "I'm deeply annoyed at myself, frankly."_ _

__"And I'm not in the least bit surprised. The other night, when you came storming in here ready to go to war with everyone who had ever hurt them, I had just the slightest inkling." Ameirin has looked far too pleased with himself, but now he grows serious, giving Beckett a searching look. "You remember what I said earlier, don't you? We do not know the person Sascha Vykos is now, and it's exceedingly likely they don't either. Not after so many years being compromised in such a way. If you would accept any advice from me, I would tell you to approach each night as it comes, and to accept that that person may not be someone you wish to know."_ _

__"That makes sense," Beckett says with a grumble, much preferring to have an answer right now. Normally, he's all for a mystery, for uncovering new details and new information, but he knows that dealing with Sascha is going to be a mystery unlike any he's dealt with before, and the road here is... uncertain. "Damn you, why do you have to keep making sense?"_ _

__Another chuckle, this time warm with fondness. "Because you're a reckless idiot when it comes to finding answers, and someone has to make sense around here."_ _

__"Gee, my thanks."_ _

__But it does help, Beckett thinks as he makes his way - slowly - back to the library. Sascha is no doubt just as confused as he is, or even moreso - it's not his entire identity and self-image on the line. It would be Sascha's task to work out the person they are now, and Beckett has no right to determine that for them - especially not after so many others have tried to make that decision for them._ _

__Sascha is in one of the armchairs, seated sideways with their sock-clad feet (purple) on one armrest, a book balanced on their thighs. When they spot him, they smile, but there's a question in their eyes. "Did you find out what you wanted?"_ _

__"I think so." Beckett drags a chair closer, sits astride it backwards. "It's a tricky situation, though."_ _

__"I'm sure." The silence sitting heavily, with a sigh, Sascha closes their eyes. "I think I want to go back to Romania."_ _

__"Oh?" Beckett asks, carefully._ _

__"Not Brașov. I'm not... quite ready for that, I think. Back to where I grew up." Eyes still closed, they smile, a quick, cautious motion. "The town itself doesn't exist any more, but it's up north. Near where Bistrița is now. Rather obligingly, there's an overnight train from București. If I wait a couple of months until winter, I shouldn't have any problems beating the sunrise."_ _

__Slowly, Beckett nods. "May I ask why?"_ _

__Sascha's eyes open, meet his gaze. "Right now, I feel adrift. I've spent my entire life being nudged into various roles - the royal heir, the prodigy mage, the scholar of Constantinople. Michael's architect. The Dracon's vessel. Even amongst the Sabbat, I was my rank and position before anything else." They wave a hand, the frustration visible on their face. "I haven't been myself for a very long time, if I ever have been, and I feel a need to stand on the soil of my place of birth and start over."_ _

__"Grounding yourself," Beckett says, both continuing the train of thought and also physically incapable of avoiding the pun._ _

__Sascha, at least, only gives him a bemused look. "Grounding myself," they repeat with a sigh. "I suppose so. Tzimisce are, more than any other clan, tied to our land, and our land can shape our characters even after hundreds of years."_ _

__Beckett nods slowly._ _

__Then, he knows, they'll be parting ways. He needs to keep searching, finding answers. Finding ways to stop those that would threaten everyone around them, like Michael and Mary, like other would-be bringers of Gehenna. And Sascha, now, needs to heal, to come to terms with eight hundred years of being a stranger to themself, and he knows this is something he won't be able to help them with._ _

__He tries to pretend the idea doesn't leave a pang in his chest._ _

__"I could fly you there," he says instead, "If you want."_ _

__A smile. "I would appreciate it."_ _

__The seconds spin on. Beckett rests his arms on the back of the chair, watches Sascha, wanting to say something but unsure where to even begin._ _

__Sascha answers for him. Sets down their book carefully on the side table, then stands and approaches, lifts Beckett's chin; kisses him, feather-soft. They draw away, then reach for one of his hands with both of theirs, presses a fold of paper into his palm._ _

__Beckett glances down, unfolds it. Blinks when he finds a short list of email addresses and a phone number._ _

__"I don't know what the future holds," Sascha says quietly, "But it's because of you that I _have_ one. Keep in touch."_ _

__Wordlessly, he nods._ _

__There's still so much he has to do. Ameirin had been right, earlier, when he had said that both he and Sascha were defined by their need to search, to learn, to seek out. At the time, he had wanted to protest that he was nothing like the Fiend. He had been right, though, hadn't he? They both could not stop, both had to keep looking, learning._ _

__And for Sascha, that meant finding answers to their own identity, working out what was left after eight hundred years of subjugation in their own mind and body. It wasn't something Beckett could help with, something he couldn't fix; he had to trust Sascha to find their own answers._ _

__The bottom of the paper has enough room; he tears off the bottom carefully and scrawls his own contact details. "I'm not very good at technology," he says sheepishly, and adds in Okulos' email address for good measure. "If I don't answer quickly, this is a friend of mine who knows how to use computers and things."_ _

__Sascha smirks as they take the paper, settling back in the armchair and plucking up their book again. "No social media for you, then?"_ _

__"What's social media?"_ _

__"They're websites where you can make a profile and talk to people and..." They laugh, shake their head. "Well, there's more to it, but never mind."_ _

__Giving Sascha a look of supreme bemusement, Beckett tucks the precious paper into his pocket. "When the time comes," he finally says, growing more serious, "When you feel ready to face Constantinople or to look for Ilias, get in touch. You don't have to do it alone."_ _

__"I know. Thank you."_ _

__Silence again, this time calm, more comfortable. Beckett watches Sascha and wonders how the hell they got here, this place where care is growing between them instead of enmity, where he's comforted by knowing he can contact them whenever he wants, even if the physical distance is great._ _

__He laughs, rests his head on his arms. "Did you ever think this would happen?"_ _

__"Which part?" Sascha is not getting far into their book, given Beckett's constant interruptions, he thinks._ _

__"All of it," Beckett says with a shrug more nonchalant than he's actually feeling. "The way things have changed for you. The way things have changed between us. A few weeks ago, I could have left you for dead, and now I -" His voice catches, hard in his throat. "Now I care."_ _

__Sascha nods wordlessly, their gaze distant, brow furrowed. "It's... disorienting. I don't like unknown quantities, and now my entire life is one. I'm a stranger to myself, and you are the one holding me together. It's a burden you shouldn't have to bear." A soft laugh, quiet and resigned and - cold, and hurt, their dark eyes shadowed. "I have no doubt you only care because I am a problem you can fix, and yet I'm too selfish to push you away. You care about me? You don't know me. Not even I know me."_ _

__They rise, all warmth gone, tension practically crackling on their skin, and push past Beckett before he can react. For a moment, he sits there stunned, then scrambles up, following them to the door._ _

__"Sascha, wait -"_ _

__Sascha meets his gaze, smiles wanly._ _

__"You don't need to play the hero," they say, and turn, and walk away._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set in 2005 you look me in the eye and tell me Sascha doesn’t have a MySpace.


	6. Chapter 6

By the time he gets back up to the guest wing, Sascha's door is locked. Beckett knocks, hears the sound of someone abruptly stop pacing then resume again, gets no verbal answer.

"Sascha?" he calls, leaning against the door frame, unease settled in the pit of his stomach, "We should talk."

"I would rather not." Sascha's voice is cold, deeply unamused. More like how they used to be, Beckett thinks with a pang. "I don't need your performative sympathy."

Beckett growls, his Beast prickling in irritation. "It's not performative if I actually care about you, you ass," he snarls, feeling the alarming urge to bare his fangs. "Can you not accept that someone may want you to be happy?"

Sascha's laugh is cynical. "Of course. You've always been so invested in my happiness." But they do unlock the door, at least; Beckett opens it to find Sascha settling cross-legged on the end of their bed, staring at their hands folded on their lap, white-knuckled. They're not meeting his gaze, brow furrowed.

"You're right," Beckett says quietly, sinking down against the wall across from Sascha. "You are. I don't know you."

Glancing up briefly, Sascha shakes their head, but otherwise remains silent.

"I don't know what I was expecting, when I saw you in Constantinople," he continues, pressing one of his claws into his palm, focusing on the prickle of physical pain instead of emotional turmoil. "I didn't want to leave you there, but I wasn't sure why. Maybe it was some sympathy born from our shared history. I'm glad I did, though."

"Why?" Sascha asks flatly, and Beckett finds he has no answer.

Silence falls about them. Beckett stares at his hands.

"I'm not sure. You're right, I don't know you. I'd like to, though." He sighs, feeling the weight in his chest. "Maybe it is selfish. Maybe I did want to play the hero. Maybe I'm curious how this mystery will play out. I can admit that much."

Sascha is watching him, examining him like a particularly interesting parchment or artifact. Finally, they unfold from the end of the bed and approach, their expression unreasonable.

"Thank you for being honest," Sascha murmurs, crouches, and presses their lips against Beckett's.

Any reservations, doubts, or concerns erase in a moment, immediately caught up in the sweetness of Sascha's mouth. Beckett's eyes slip shut, a soft sound of wonder in his throat; he reaches for Sascha then stops short, breaking the kiss just enough to speak.

"May I touch you?"

Sascha hesitates, then shakes their head. "Let me," they say, and takes one of Beckett's hands, pressing a kiss to the palm.

Beckett, despite himself, shivers; his eyes flicker shut when Sascha draws one clawed finger into their mouth. "Careful," he murmurs, voice cracking.

Drawing the digit back out, Sascha presses a kiss to the knuckle. "I'm not afraid of you," they murmur, sliding their hands under Beckett's shirt, tugging it up. Obligingly, Beckett lifts his arms.

Sascha takes the fabric and twists. Traps Beckett's arms in the garment, presses both hands hard against his chest.

Their hands are icy cold. There is no affection in the touch. Beckett feels a prickle of fear down his spine and he opens his eyes.

Sascha stares at him, expression cold, calculating. Old. "I could destroy you," they say, and there's no warmth or affection in their voice. "I could rip your heart out, or remove your head, or turn you into slime. Turn you into ash. I could turn you into an unimaginable lump of flesh. You couldn't stop me if you tried."

If he still lived, Beckett's heart would be racing. He stares at Sascha, at their dark, dark eyes, at their emotionless face - emotionless, save for interest in the same way a scientist is interested in the specimen they're dissecting.

And he's afraid. He's let himself get involved, get close, and now his life is in Sascha's hands, and he's afraid.

"Are you scared of me?" Sascha asks, quietly.

His mouth bone dry, Beckett nods, tremors running down his spine, his Beast pressing against his skin.

"I'm stronger than you." Sascha's voice is still so quiet, so calm. Their fingers curl into Beckett's collarbones, nails pricking his skin. "Older than you. More powerful than you. I could ruin you and it wouldn't even be hard."

Again, Beckett nods. He wants to speak, but no words come; he's silenced by sharp fear crackling across his skin, the little voice in his head telling him he's an idiot, that this is his fault - all his fault for getting involved and all his fault for putting himself in such a vulnerable position.

He did this to himself. Sascha could kill him now and he would have no one to blame but himself.

"I could destroy you," Sascha says, and closes their eyes. Their hands are trembling, blood-stained tears slipping from under their eyelids. "But I won't. I won't. I'm better than him. I won't hurt you."

The fear disappears in an instance. Beckett wrestles his hands free of the shirt, uncaring that he tears it in the process, and pulls Sascha close as they begin to weep.

"This is who you are," he murmurs into Sascha's hair. " _This_ is you. You're not the Dracon. You're Sascha, and this is the choice _you_ made."

Sascha nods miserably. "I had to test myself," they say, and their voice is far less cold, now. "Before, I would have killed you, or mutilated you, and I would barely have thought anything of it. It would have been easy. It would have been _fun_. I would have taken you apart to see what had made you tick, and - I don't want to do that now. I had to understand - I had to know how much of that was him, and how much of it was me, and -" Their voice cuts off, choked in tears. "I had to know. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," Beckett whispers, holds them close, lets the relief sink into his bones. "It's okay."

It's a cruel test. Logically, he knows that, knows that the very real fear shows that there's still not unconditional trust between them. And maybe there won't be for a very long time, or ever, given all the history between them; maybe there is simply too much bloodshed staining Sascha's past for them to ever escape it.

But maybe they can. Maybe it's enough to start over, with that one fragile little scrap of self-knowledge - that they don't want to cause pain for the sake of it.

They can build on that. Start the process of self-discovery, rebuilding a shattered identity that has been pulled every which way and has only just been let free.

Sascha stands, wipes their tears, offers a hand up to Beckett. He takes it, no more fear of those hands left in him, lets Sascha lead him to the bed, lets himself be drawn down.

For a long, long time, they balance there in tableau, Sascha seated, Beckett kneeling, gazing at each other. Then Sascha leans in and presses a kiss to Beckett's lips, pulls away and tugs the shirt over their head. "You can touch me."

"Are you sure?"

"I trust you." Sascha closes their eyes, catches one of Beckett's hands, brings it to rest softly against their chest where the scars from where their demons had been ripped away still remain; Beckett can imagine a hummingbird heart under their skin. "I trust you."

It's quiet, now. Soft. Exploratory touches, careful to watch the myriad of expressions crossing Sascha's face. Uncertainty, curiosity, pleasure; pleasure with their eyes shut and lips parted, pleasure from the way Beckett is touching them, the trust they're leaving in his hands leaving him humbled.

There's no pain here. No fear. Just trust and tenderness, and warmth and wonder, and whatever it is that's growing between them like a seedling.

They both sleep well that day.

It's good to be facing open skies again.

This plane is still new, and Beckett had barely been out of torpor during his first and last flight in it. But he runs the palm of his hand over its metal skin as he boards, a bag slung over his shoulder, and thinks of starlit skies.

Sascha is close behind him, an expression of curious trepidation on their face. They're dressed for a flight, loose sweater, leggings, glittery silver trainers, bone ring on its cord; their belongings are bundled up in a large backpack.

Aside from the ring, they look like any other youth about to go backpacking through Romania. Which, of course, is the point.

"She's about warmed up," Cesare calls from the cockpit, the door sliding open as he steps out. "You said northern Romania?"

"Right. Cluj-Napoca?" Beckett glances back at Sascha for confirmation, who nods. "Cluj-Napoca. We're not staying, we're just dropping Vykos off."

Cesare admirably resists too obvious a double-take. "Mx Vykos. My apologies, I didn't recognise you."

Sascha only raises an eyebrow. "That is, generally, the point."

Glancing between them uncertainly, Cesare straightens up. "Right. I hadn't realised you two were getting on these days."

Beckett laughs and slings an arm around Sascha's shoulder, who, to their credit, doesn't immediately slug him. "Oh, didn't you hear? They're my new best fiend."

He can practically _feel_ the unimpressed stares from them both. "Cesare," Sascha says wearily, "If you're seeking new employment, we can always dump him in the mid-Atlantic."

Cesare only laughs. "Believe me, Mx Vykos, I've considered it."

"So cruel, both of you! Cesare, I'm docking your holiday bonus."

"Oh no, my Ferrari funds," Cesare deadpans, and returns to the cockpit; Beckett seals the door shut and stows his and Sascha's luggage.

It's not a bad plane. Beckett makes a mental note to thank Vitel later, and settles into one of the comfortable seats with a sigh, glancing out the window to the lights of Ameirin's villa are visible, the rocky ridge dark against the star-studded sky.

They'll have dark for a while. Lightproof rear section to rest in during the day. The sea below, stars above, adventure ahead.

The engines rumble on. Beckett can feel the familiar thrill of whatever passes for adrenaline as they start to taxi.

"Ready?" Beckett says with a grin.

Sascha smiles back, calm on their face, fearlessness in their eyes. "Ready."

The land falls away, and they soar into the sky.

_ Somewhere over the Atlantic _

_We have departed Prospero's place as of a few hours ago, and are now somewhere over the mid-Atlantic, en route to a private airport at Cluj-Napoca, Romania. When I say 'we', I do not refer only to Cesare and myself - we are accompanied by Vykos, currently reclined in their seat and utterly engrossed in a book._

_I haven't written of everything that happened in the Caymans, and nor do I intend to. Suffice to say, Vykos and I have reached an... understanding. It will be essential if we are to do anything about the new Trinity attempting to take form, of course, but it's also a refreshing cessation of our previous hostilities and - dare I even suggest it - the potential beginning of a new friendship._

_A change, certainly. But change is what has taken place here, and with it, the opportunity for a fresh start._

_There was a great deal that changed in the Caymans, and in modern Istanbul before it. In New York, before that; in Brasov and in Constantinople at its height, long, long ago. What remains is a future - dizzyingly unclear, replete with potential, the shape it will take still an unknown entity._

_I don't know what will happen next. Not for myself, not for Vykos, not for whatever is developing between us._

_But I cannot wait to find out._

_\- Beckett_


End file.
